-' 


AST  WORD 


ALICE  •  MAcGOWAN 


The   Last  Word 


CAKRINGTON    WEST 


HE  LAST 


By 
ALICE       MAcGOWAN 


BOSTON 
L.    C.    PAGE    fc?    COMPANY 

MDCCCCIII 


Copyright,  1902 

By  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 

All  rights  reserved 


Published,  August,  1902 


Colonial 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


.  .  .  So  take  the  book.    Its  words  are  mine; 

Mine  is  the  voice 
Which  through  its  pages  you  may  hear 

Grieve,  or  rejoice. 

But  heart  and  eyes  of  yearning  love 

To  feel  and  see 
All  human  grief,  or  joy,  or  hope, 

You  gave  to  me. 

1  walked  the  city's  ways,  alone 

As  hermits  are, 
Because  my  heart  was  from  your  heart 

Exiled  so  far. 

Though  I  was  housed,  and  warmed,  and  fed, 

All  want  I  knew; 
All  hunger,  cold  and  loneliness, 

In  wanting  you. 

From  all  Life's  victims'  eyes  I  saw 

The  wakeful  pain 
Which  tossed  and  slept  not  in  my  heart 

Look  back  again. 

Yet  could  I  hope  for  these,  against 

Despair  and  death; 
Because  my  own  hope  cannot  cease, 

Save  with  my  breath. 

My  heart,  like  the  great  city's  heart, 

Its  deep  unrest, 
Its  trouble,  half  revealed,  half  hid, 

Beneath  a  jest. 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  IN  THE  HAND  OF  THE  WIND        .        .        .  i 

II.  "THE  PANTHER'S  FEET"      .        .        .        .17 

III.  "  Now  WE  ARE  COME  TO  OUR  KINGDOM"  .  37 

IV.  A  SUPERFLUOUS  INTRODUCTION    ...  56 

V.  "  A    ROMAN    WARRIOR  —  SCULPTOR     UN- 
KNOWN"     .        .        .        .        .        .        .68 

VI.  ST.  PATRICK'S  DAY  IN  THE  MORNING         .  82 

VII.  "THE  EATERS  AND  THE  EATEN"        .        .  96 

VIII.  OF  THE  MAKING  OF  BOOKS.        .        .        .  107 

IX.  THE  LITTLE  STJDIO 119 

X.  "  His  PROPER  GIFT  " 132 

XI.  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  SOVEREIGNS        .        .  139 

XII.  IN  THE  CHAMBER  OF  ECHOES       .        .        .152 

XIII.  "THROUGH    THE    SEVENTH    GATE"           .            .  1 66 

XIV.  THE  LORD'S  FREEMAN 189 

XV.  A  DOCTOR  OF  PHILOSOPHY  ....  200 

XVI.  As  SOLOMON  SAYS 214 

XVII.  "FoR    A    HAWK  —  A  HORSE  —  OR   A   HUS- 
BAND"        230 

XVIII.  THE  HIGHEST  PLACES 238 

XIX.  "  UNDERNEATH  THE  BOUGH  "...  249 

XX  THE  BREAKING  GULF 267 

XXI.  A  WHITE  NIGHT 278 

XXII.  IN  THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  SEAS     .        .        .  285 

XXIII.  A  SPARTAN  THREE 295 

XXIV.  A  PLASTER  EROS 312 

XXV.  FLAWED  VESSELS    ......  325 

vil 


Vlll 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

PACK 

XXVI. 

"  THE  PITY  OP  IT  I  "  . 

344 

XXVII. 

"  THE  AMAZING  MARRIAGE  "     . 

-     35i 

XXVIII. 

THE  PUN  THERAPEUTIC     . 

,     364 

XXIX. 

A  BRIDGE  OF  DAYS    .... 

•     376 

XXX. 

THE  PHANTOM  CARAVAN   . 

•     384 

XXXI. 

"  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  STRANGER  "  . 

•     397 

XXXII. 

"THE  RACE  UNRUN" 

.     417 

XXXIII. 

HEARTS  TRIUMPHANT 

43° 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

CARRINGTON  WEST Frontispiece 

'"A  ROMAN  WARRIOR  —  SCULPTOR  UNKNOWN'"        .      81 
"  '  IT  IS  ALWAYS  ROSES  AND  CARA  TO  ME '"      .        .172 

UNDERNEATH  THE  BOUGH 256 

A  WHITE  NIGHT 278 

" «  I     DECIDED     FINALLY     THAT     I     WOULD     WRITE     TO 

HIM'" 386 

"  '  WE  RODE  TO  THE  ROUND  -  UP  '  "        .     .     .   430 


The  Last  Word 

CHAPTER   I. 

In  the  Hand  of  the  Wind 

"  Hail  and  farewell  1  I  must  arise, 

Leave  here  the  fatted  cattle, 
And  paint  on  other  scenes  and  skies 
My  Odyssey  of  battle." 

MY  hat  blew  off  as  we  were  crossing  Packsaddle 
divide.  There's  a  wind  that  lives  all  alone  up  there 
on  Packsaddle,  a  wild,  shiftless,  senseless  creature, 
that  runs  hooting  and  tooting  up  and  down.  It 
comes  at  you,  snatching  and  screeching,  the  moment 
you  top  the  divide,  and  races  yelling  away,  carry- 
ing anything  in  the  outfit  it  can  tear  loose.  Now  it 
fled  triumphantly  with  its  booty,  at  the  rate  of  fifty 
miles  an  hour. 

We  had  encountered,  as  we  neared  the  station, 
several  detachments  of  skylarking  cowboys,  seeking 
entertainment,  as  they  seek  —  or  meet  —  all  the  is- 
sues of  life,  a-horseback. 

My  fleeing  hat  drove  directly  toward  the  nearest 
group  of  these  riders,  and  they,  perceiving  from  my 


The  Last  Word 


frantic  gesticulations  and  the  sight  of  my  bare  head, 
what  was  (literally)  in  the  wind,  whooped  as  one 
cowboy,  and  as  one  cowboy  launched  forward  after 
it. 

The  lunatic  wind  dropped  its  plaything  just  at 
that  moment,  and,  before  they  could  check,  the  whole 
troop  had  ridden  pell-mell  over  the  fugitive,  and  I 
realised  that  the  enthusiasm  of  well-meaning  friends 
may  have  its  embarrassments. 

This  hat,  however,  was  my  hat,  that  is  to  say,  a 
garment  (if  garment  is  the  word)  which  had  spent 
many  months  in  close  association  with  my  head,  and 
it  was  not  to  be  easily  downed.  Mangled  as  it  must 
even  then  have  been,  it  stoutly  signalled  the  next 
passing  blast,  which  came  racing  along  at  that  in- 
stant, boarded  it,  and  capered  gaily  away  on  its 
wings  toward  some  air-drawn  point  in  the  horizon 
line,  which  it  had  evidently  decided  upon  for  itself. 

The  boys  wheeled  and  tore  after  it.  There  were 
ropes  whirling  now.  They  had  forgotten  the  nature 
of  the  thing  they  were  after,  —  a  mortal  hat,  and 
the  only  headgear  I  had  in  which  to  travel  to  New 
York.  It  was  with  sinking  heart  I  observed  their 
earnest  rivalry  in  its  pursuit.  No  hat  ever  fabricated 
of  straw,  I  assured  myself,  could  come  whole  out  of 
the  impending  encounter.  And  I  was  right. 

"  I've  got  the  brim !  "  Bob  Howard  called  to  me, 
as  the  squad  came  charging  back,  "  and  Shorty,  he's 
got  the  crown." 

"  I'm  awful  sorry  it  wouldn't  stay  together," 
apologised  Shorty.  "  I'd  have  been  perfectly  will- 
ing to  let  Bob  have  all  of  it  —  every  bit  —  but  it 
seemed  as  if  my  rope  cut  right  through  it." 

"  Say,  boys,"  put  in  Little  Carpenter,  "  that  hat's 


In  the  Hand  of  the  Wind 


a  gone  fawn-skin  —  it's  a  was  —  even  if  you  went 
and  scraped  up  all  the  pieces  we  scattered  around 
back  there.  I  forgot  it  wasn't  a  mountain  lion  while 
I  was  after  it."  And  he  laughed  ruefully. 

Snap  Masters  rode  up  gaily,  glanced  at  the  frag- 
ments in  Bob's  hands,  and  his  face  fell  comically  as 
he  announced  :  "  It's  no  use  fooling  with  that  stuff. 
There's  a  new  millinery  store  started  over  at  Can- 
yoncita  City  —  and  she's  a  hummer,  too.  'Tain't 
more'n  five  miles  extry  between  here  an'  the  station. 
I'll  ride  round  that  way  and  get  her  a  hat." 

"You  will!"  snorted  Bob  Howard.  "Well,  I 
like  the  cast-iron  brass  of  that!  I  guess  I'll  get 
it  for  her.  'Twas  me  roped  the  brim." 

"  I  rode  over  it  more'n  six  times,"  retorted  Snap, 
and  Shorty  put  in  a  claim  as  the  one  who  pulled 
it  in  two.  I  was  forgotten  in  the  earnest,  not  to 
say  heated,  discussion  as  to  who  should  buy  my 
headgear. 

Suddenly  Little  Carpenter  settled  it.  "  We'll  each 
get  her  one,"  he  said.  "  Git  there!  "  and  he  started 
his  pony  in  what  proved  to  be  a  second  race. 

King  Preston  told  me  about  it  afterward,  at 
the  station,  while  we  waited  for  old  Hank  Pearsall 
who  never  came.  King  had  a  delightful  style,  a 
distinctly  literary  style.  Indeed  he  was  a  born 
writer,  an  artist;  the  only  man  I  have  known,  out 
on  that  border  of  the  world,  in  whom  the  doing  of 
strange,  dramatic  deeds,  the  actual  living  of  a  wild, 
vivid,  picturesque  life,  could  not  dull  a  fine  instinc- 
tive perception  of  the  picturesqueness,  the  humour, 
the  dramatic  points,  and  artistic  values  of  it  all. 

We,  in  our  buckboard,  drove  on  across  Packsad- 
dle  toward  the  station;  and  the  millinery  posse,  as 


The  Last  Word 


King  styled  it,  thundered  upon  the  door  of  the  Elite 
Millinery  Parlours  in  Canyoncita  City,  bringing 
Madame  O'Brien  to  the  door,  with  her  Hibernian 
locks  still  in  their  French  crimping-pins. 

"  She  lives  behind  the  shop,"  explained  King, 
"  an'  she'd  slung  a  small  rebozo  over  the  general 
dis-abilly  an'  disconnection  of  her  cos-toom.  When 
she  saw  the  crowd  of  us,  she  staggered  back,  an' 
says,  '  Hivin  presarve  us ! '  I  guess  she  thought 
we  was  a  mob  o'  vigilantes.  '  The '  Howly  Mother 
kape  us! '  she  says,  an'  tried  to  clap  to  the  door." 

But  it  seems  that  Frosty,  who  had  been  doing  the 
door-pounding,  was  ahead  of  her  there.  Frosty  had 
been  used  to  ride,  as  a  ranger,  with  posses  military, 
after  goods  other  than  millinery,  and  was  familiar 
with  all  manner  of  strange  encounters.  Now  the 
toe  of  his  boot  was  between  the  door  and  lintel 
as  they  strove  to  connect.  The  boys  stood  in  a  semi- 
circle and  announced  that  they  had  only  come  to  get 
some  hats  for  a  young  lady. 

"  She  looked  at  us  plumb  wild,"  reported  King, 
"  an'  she  sorter  whispered,  '  Some  hats ! '  So  I 
explained.  I  told  her  we'd  each  take  a  hat,  an'  let 
the  young  lady  have  her  choice.  She  bristled  up  at 
that.  '  Well,  then,  you'll  do  no  such  thing !  You'll 
not  rob  a  lone  widder  of  her  goods,  an'  carry  'em 
off  the  Lord  knows  where,  not  fer  awwv-body  to  take 
their  ch'ice  of ! '  says  she. 

'  Oh,  we'll  buy  the  bonnets  all  right,  ma'am,' 
says  I ;  an'  the  boys  sorter  jingled  the  money  in  their 
pockets,  to  back  me  up.  You  never  saw  such  a 
change  in  a  person.  She  was  all  smiles,  and  full  o' 
good  talk.  She  was  helpful,  you  know,  thataway. 
Oh,  she  was  plumb  excellent  in  counsel.  '  Walk 


In  the  Hand  of  the  Wind 


right  in,  gintlemen,'  she  says;  an'  she  took  a  hitch 
in  that  insufficient  rebczo,  where  her  costoom  didn't 
seem  to  connect,  an'  made  fast  with  one  o'  them  big 
prod-poles  you  ladies  spike  on  hats  with.  We  left 
the  ponies  standin',  an'  the  six  of  us  —  all  boots  an' 
spurs  an'  sombreros,  looked  like  to  me  —  went  in 
fer  millinery. 

"  We  stopped  in  a  bunch  inside,  sort  o'  sheepish. 
But  now  'twas  the  Madame  spurred  us  on.  She 
began  by  showin'  a  big  '  picture  hat,'  she  called  it, 
to  Bob  Howard  —  that  blazin'  red,  frizzly  one. 

"  '  Blue's  my  favourite  colour,'  objects  Bob,  very 
solemn,  '  an'  this  don't  show  any  blue  about  it.' 

"  '  Blue  is  it  !  '  says  the  Madame,  a-flutterin'  like 
a  prairie-hen  ;  '  Oi've  the  jewel  of  a  blue  parrit  that 
Oi  c'n  jist  tuck  in,  t'  give  it  th'  taste!'  An'  she 
brought  out  that  long-tailed,  blazin'  blue  buzzard, 
an'  pinned  it  into  them  blazin'  red  things  —  cactus 
blossoms,  look  like.  She  was  plumb  religious  over 
it,  Miss  Carry  ;  she  rolled  up  her  eyes  an'  told  Bob 
she'd  seen  the  Lord  Leftenant's  loidy,  in  Dublin, 
a-goin'  to  mass  of  an  Easter  marnin'.  a-wearin'  the 
very  mate  o'  that  on  her  head. 

"  That  was  a  plenty  for  Bob,  an'  he  paid  for  the 
hat,  all  solemn,  an'  saw  it  boxed.  He  wanted  to 
make  a  quiet  sneak  with  it,  but  Frosty  was  guarding 
the  door  all  right,  an'  told  him  flat  that  we  was  all 
goin'  out  together,  an'  no  favours  shown. 

"  I'd  picked  out  a  little  bonnet  that  was  nothin' 
but  flowers  —  great,  long  mosquito-netting  tie- 
strings  to  it.  I  didn't  like  Bob's  red-cloud,  blue- 
buzzard  thing;  still,  it  somehow  made  mine  look 
small.  '  There  don't  seem  to  be  enough  of  mine,' 
I  says,  sort  o'  discontented.  Then  I  had  an  idea. 


The  Last  Word 


'Hold  on!'  I  hollered  to  the  Madame  (she  was 
selling  that  yellow  velvet  thing  she  called  a  tam-o'- 
shanter,  with  purple  flowers  on  it,  to  Snap  Masters). 
'  Say,  wait !  I  want  about  a  peck  measure  o'  these 
flowers  and  things,'  I  says. 

"  She  looked  a  little  jolted  for  a  minute,  but  she 
riz  to  the  occasion,  an'  measured  'em  out  all  right 
in  a  bonnet  box,  an'  passed  'em  over,  with  about 
'steen  yards  of  thin  stuff  an'  a  paper  of  pins.  I 
got  Frosty  to  let  me  out  by  promisin'  not  to  stam- 
pede, an'  leavin'  my  bonnet  inside.  I  had  time 
enough  to  do  my  work,  for  Rush  Clark  bought  that 
big  green  an'  white  hat,  an'  had  them  wavin'  plumes 
put  on  special,  before  the  thing  come  up  to  his  fas- 
tidious taste.  Frosty  couldn't  find  any  hat  at  all 
that  answered  to  his  notions,  an'  one  had  to  be  got 
up  entire  for  him. 

"  When  they  were  all  suited  at  last,  an'  started 
for  the  door  an'  the  ponies,  I  was  done;  an'  I  guess 
you'll  agree  my  job  was  no  slouch,  neither.  The 
boys  give  one  look,  an'  then  yelled  like  Comanches." 

Gazing  on  King's  "  job,"  I  was  constrained  to 
admit  that  it  was,  indeed,  as  he  had  said,  "  no 
slouch." 

Armed  with  his  peck  of  millinery  and  quarter- 
mile  of  veiling,  he  had  trimmed  and  caparisoned  his 
pony  till  it  resembled  the  steeds  of  Aurora,  or  Spring 
in  a  modern  French  fresco.  His  fingers,  trained  by 
long  practice  upon  his  own  garments,  had  used  the 
pins  and  wires  skilfully.  A  pair  of  glowing  purple 
Mercury  wings  garnished  the  pony's  knowing  ears, 
a  garland  of  roses  encircled  his  ewe  neck ;  puffs  of 
vapourous  tulle  fell  over  his  shoulders  like  monster 
sleeves,  and  were  looped  back  toward  the  saddle, 


In  the  Hand  of  the  Wind 


and  bound  about  with  bunches  of  posies'  and  shining 
ornaments.  His  tail  was  shrouded  in  misty  white, 
and  a  rope  of  flowers  ran  from  it  to  the  high  cantle. 

The  pony,  it  seems  ("  You  can't  surprise  a  Texas 
bronc,"  said  King),  had  accepted  his  unusual  attire 
with  a  cynical  indifference  born  of  many  and  strange 
adventures;  but  the  millinery  hunters  went  wild. 
They  cast  their  burdens  upon  the  ground,  and  turned 
with  joyous  whoops  to  secure,  each  for  himself,  a 
similar  outfit. 

King  shouted  in  vain  that  it  was  late,  that  they 
must  mount  and  ride  if  they  were  to  reach  the  sta- 
tion in  time  for  my  train.  He  even  confessed  the 
weakness  of  claiming  that  the  boys  were  infringing 
upon  his  original  idea  in  thus  decorating  their  steeds. 
"  It  was  a  stampede,"  he  confided  to  me,  half  sadly. 
"  There  was  no  turnin'  'em." 

"  Old  train  never  was  known  to  be  on  time,"  de- 
clared Shorty;  "an'  I'll  bet  Hank  Pearsall  hasn't 
got  there  yet,  anyhow." 

This  settled  it.  Bolts  of  diaphanous  stuffs  of 
every  known  tint,  bushels  of  flowers  and  feathers 
and  buckles  were  brought  out;  Madame  was  en- 
couraged to  assist ;  and  when  King  set  his  disgusted 
face  toward  the  station,  he  had  met  the  fate  of  the 
pioneer  in  any  field.  For  he  found  himself  (like 
all  great  originators)  surrounded  by  a  school  —  a 
cloud  —  of  imitators. 

To  make  up  the  time  lost  at  Madame's,  they  rode 
hard,  and,  as  men  and  horses  warmed  to  their  work, 
the  great,  light,  square,  or  round  bonnet  box  each 
man  carried  became  an  intolerable  nuisance.  Fi- 
nally, in  desperation,  King  attached  his  sombrero  to 
his  saddle  ties,  cast  away  the  encumbering  box,  and, 


The  Last  Word 


perching  the  toque  it  had  contained  upon  his  head, 
tied  the  filmy  strings  beneath  his  chin. 
"  When  the  others  snickered  at  sight  of  his  tanned 
and^  weatherbeaten  face  in  its  vernal  framing,  he 
told*  them  sternly  that  he  was  going  to  get  that  bon- 
net to  the  station,  and  get  it  there  in  good  shape, 
but  that  he'd  as  soon  pack  a  windmill  and  pump  as 
that  old  box.  And  those  who  had  jeered  yet  looked 
enviously  at  him  as  he  swung  ahead,  his  tulle 
streamers  flying,  while  they  shifted  their  light  but 
trying  burdens  from  one  aching  arm  to  the  other. 

Bob  finally  broke  his  box,  endeavouring  to  attach 
it  to  his  saddle  ties.  Then  he  fastened  his  flaming 
trophy  upon  his  pony's  head  —  "  Blazin'  blue  buz- 
zard an'  all ! "  recounted  King. 

Snap  Masters,  a  man  of  resource,  took  off  his 
sombrero,  which  chanced  to  be  of  the  stiff,  steeple- 
crowned  variety,  and  spiking  his  yellow  tam-o'- 
shanter  atop  of  it  with  the  long  hat-pins,  set  it 
back  in  place,  and  buckled  the  strap  once  more  below 
his  chin.  This  rational  plan  appealed  to  all,  and 
was  promptly  followed  by  the  three  others.  Quirts 
and  spurs  were  brought  into  use,  and  the  posse  set- 
tled down  to  that  means  and  end  of  all  cowboys' 
frolics,  a  go-as-you-please  race. 

I  sat  waiting  at  the  station,  in  the  soft  light  of 
early  morning,  when  this  fantastic,  flying  squadron 
of  the  imagination  came  tearing  across  the  open 
prairie  toward  us,  the  ponies  shedding  flowers  at 
every  jump,  so  that  the  cavalcade  left  a  wake  like  a 
bridal  procession.  It  swept  in  from  the  west,  an 
ambulatory  equine  rainbow,  which  blazed  upon  the 
face  of  the  plain,  and  shamed  the  fires  of  sunrise. 

It  was  truly  the  maddest  thing  I  ever  saw.    But 


In  the  Hand  of  the  Wind 


it  was,  for  that  very  reason,  perhaps,  good  med- 
icine for  an  insidious  little  chill  which,  during  that 
long  wait,  had  begun  to  creep  over  my  spirit.  So 
we  rose  up  and  yelled  a  lusty  welcome.  The  boys 
who  were  holding  the  herds  of  cattle,  had  all  they 
could  do  to  prevent  several  stampedes.  The  mil- 
linery question  was  disposed  of,  with  much  argu- 
ment and  cross  argument,  and  we  proceeded  to  other 
matters. 

I  had  driven  in  from  the  ranch  a  little  after  mid- 
night, that  the  "  local  freight,"  which  passed  Emer- 
ald at  about  five  o'clock,  or,  as  the  boys  put  it,  "  at 
early  sunup,"  might  be  flagged  for  me. 

It  was  shipping  time,  and  the  outfits  from  nearly 
a  dozen  ranches  were  camped  on  the  open  plain  all 
about  Emerald,  getting  the  long  trains  of  "  beef  " 
off  to  Kansas  City  and  Chicago. 

For  Emerald,  hardly  more  than  a  railroad  station, 
Emerald,  upon  whose  insignificance  uninstructed 
eyes  would  look  with  contempt  —  a  station,  a  little 
hotel,  one  or  two  humble  looking  stores,  where  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  ranch  sup- 
plies are  sold  yearly,  and  a  scattered  handful  of  little 
houses,  all  looking  preposterously  small  and  lost  on 
the  vast  green-brown  plain  —  Emerald  is  headquar- 
ters of  the  biggest  ranch  in  the  world,  and  of  several 
others  that  are  extensive  even  for  Texas;  and  it  is 
the  greatest  shipping  point  in  the  State,  that  is,  for 
shipping  directly  off  the  range. 

As  I  stepped  on  to  the  platform  in  the  gray  dawn, 
I  could  see  the  sidings  filled  with  hundreds  of  cattle- 
cars,  and  the  levels  about  the  station  covered  with 
tents  and  men  and  cattle. 

Over  to  the  left  was  the  Broken  Circle  camp; 


io         <&          The  Last  Word  «$» 

back  of  them  were  the  boys  of  the  Bar  13  ranch. 
The  Lazy  F  and  the  Cross  5  were  camped  together ; 
and  on  the  outskirts  hovered  a  small  Mexican  outfit 
or  two. 

Your  genuine  cowboy  will  work  all  day  and  sky- 
lark all  night;  so  I  was  inclined  to  think  that  my 
departure  for  New  York,  in  search  of  fame  and 
riches,  was  seized  upon  by  the  boys  as  rather  a  god- 
send in  the  way  of  amusement.  I  am  sure  they 
made  the  most  of  it  for  this  reason;  though  it  is 
but  fair  to  say  in  this  connection  that  people  in 
Texas,  when  they  like  you,  like  you  very  much, 
often  quite  vociferously. 

All  the  boys  that  I  knew  —  and  some  that  I  did 
not  —  had  brought  me  things.  The  Bar  135  had 
accumulated  almost  a  ton  of  Navajo  blankets.  Na- 
vajo  blankets  are  just  the  thing  for  camping.  They 
are  woven  so  thick  and  closely  that  they  will  turn 
water.  Nobody,  surely,  would  doubt  that  a  good 
supply  of  them  was  the  thing  most  needed  by  a 
young  woman  going  to  New  York  to  engage  in  lit- 
erary and  journalistic  pursuits. 

The  boys  from  the  Broken  Circle,  which  is  over 
near  the  breaks  of  the  Canadian,  where  there  is  still 
good  hunting,  brought  me  a  fine  collection  of  cat, 
coyote,  and  "  loafer  "  hides,  dressed  mostly  with  the 
heads  on,  so  that  they  looked  formidable  enough  as 
they  lay  huddled  and  grinning  in  the  uncertain  light. 
Lefty  Adams's  horned  toads  were  delightful.  They 
were  nicely  tamed,  and  trained  to  some  simple  tricks. 
"  Gentled  an'  well  broke,"  he  called  them.  There 
were  six  of  them,  in  a  box  which  he  had  made  and 
decorated  in  leisure  moments ;  and  over  the  little  door 
he  had  painted,  with  many  flourishes.  "  Hotel  Wai- 


«$»       In  the  Hand  of  the  Wind     <$»      n 

dorf."  There  were  several  pairs  of  magnificent 
steer  horns  of  tremendous  size  and  spread,  picked 
specimens,  with  the  beautiful  double  curve,  lovingly 
polished  and  mounted.  There  were  deer  hoof  ink- 
stands and  jewel-receivers,  buffalo  and  antelope  horn 
hooks,  and  other  odds  and  ends. 

Presently  the  "  local  freight  "  came  wabbling  and 
muttering  and  coughing  along  southward,  and 
pulled  up  at  the  station.  Whereupon  it  at  once 
became  evident  that  some  unusual  demonstration 
had  been  planned.  Feverish  excitement  immediately 
prevailed.  The  air,  which  before  had  contained 
merely  about  sixty  per  cent,  of  Texas  dust,  was  now 
also  thick  with  flying  inquiries  and  exclamations, 
after  this  manner : 

"Where's  Hank  Pearsall?" 

"Who's  got  my  dawg?" 

"  Leave  in  ten  minutes  ?  Yes,  a  whole  lot !  Say, 
Billy,  swing  yer  rope  into  that  engine  cab  an'  jerk 
that  feller  out  fer  me!" 

"Where's  that  buffalo  head?" 

"  Say,  now,  that's  mean !  I  brought  a  whole 
passel  o'  prairie-dogs,  an'  Jerry's  went  an'  turned 
'em  all  a-loose !  " 

"Where's  Hank  Pearsall?" 

"  Take  them  horned  toads  off  o'  that.    It's  grub !  " 

"  Roll  up  them  blankets,  an'  make  her  a  seat. 
Don't  you  see  she's  tired  o'  standin'  ?  " 

"  Push  them  hides  out  o'  her  way." 

"  Did  you  rope  that  engineer  ?  Well,  then,  hog- 
tie  him.  I  tell  you,  this  presentation  address  is 
a-goin'  to  be  delivered  if  this  train  don't  never  git 
nowhere ! " 

"Where's  Hank  Pearsall?" 


12          «£»          The  Last  Word  <f» 

These  wild  and  apparently  unrelated  questions, 
exclamations,  and  adjurations  strove  and  wrestled 
together  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  station; 
then  went  out  and  lost  themselves  on  the  open 
prairie.  For  me,  I  sat  on  the  roll  of  blankets,  and 
felt  (for  once  in  my  life)  very  small  and  very  quiet. 

"  Gentlemen,"  protested  the  engineer  (he  was 
hog-tied,  as  had  been  directed,  and  lay  on  the  plat- 
form, while  Frosty  sat  on  him  and  smoked  socia- 
bly), "  Gentlemen,  I  can't  stay  here;  it's  a  matter, 
y'  might  say,  of  life  an'  death!  " 

"  You  bet  it  is,"  corroborated  Frosty.  "  The  boys 
don't  feel  like  standin'  any  foolishness." 

"  I  tell  you,  you  blame  fool  boys,  I'll  bet  I'm  on 
the  time  of  the  north  bound  express  right  now." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  ain't.  You're  on  the  station  plat- 
form, an'  I'm  on  you,"  laughed  Frosty,  giving  him 
a  comfortable  punch  with  an  unspurred  heel. 

We  waited  with  patient  industry  for  Hank  Pear- 
sail,  who,  it  seems,  was  the  orator  of  the  occasion. 
But  I  have  already  told  you  that  Mr.  Pearsall 
(the  most  famous  range  cook  in  the  West  Texas 
cattle  county)  never  came,  and  my  triumphant 
departure  lacked  the  crowning  splendour  of  Hank's 
inimitable  oratory. 

This  was  probably  even  a  greater  disappointment 
to  me  than  to  the  boys  who  had  "  the  blow-out " 
in  charge.  For  Hank  and  I  were  old  and  congenial 
friends.  Our  attachment  had  commenced,  simulta- 
neously with  our  acquaintance,  at  my  first  round-up. 
It  was  a  big  round-up.  Hank  was  cook  for  the 
Broken  Arrow  outfit,  but  he  was  also  master  of 
ceremonies  and  lord  of  the  feast.  And  this  poten- 
tate signalised  his  approval  of  me  and  my  horse- 


«£»        In  the  Hand  of  the  Wind     «£»      13 

manship  by  presenting  me  (I  was  a  slim  slip  of  a 
girl)  with  a  sour-dough  man,  inconceivably  fat, 
mounted  on  a  horse  also  of  sour-dough  biscuit,  like- 
wise dropsical  in  appearance,  but  careering  through 
space  like  a  racer,  obedient  to  the  artist  creator's 
hand.  Since  that  time,  nearly  ten  years  ago,  the 
course  of  our  true  love  had  run  perfectly  smooth. 
I  had  heard  Hank  tell  many  inimitable  stories,  and 
speechify  on  several  "  happy  "  and  "  auspicious  " 
and  "  important  "  occasions ;  and  greatly  as  I  val- 
ued those  things  the  boys  had  brought  me,  I  would, 
in  my  secret  heart,  have  been  willing  to  give  them 
all  in  exchange  for  old  Hank's  parting  a-dress. 
That  speech  would  have  been  to  me  blankets  and 
food  and  drink  —  yes,  and  friends. 

The  thing  which  the  presentation  address  pre- 
sented was  a  buffalo  head,  one  of  the  finest  I  ever 
saw,  as  big  as  a  small  cottage,  and  apparently  weigh- 
ing tons.  I  was  absolutely  enthralled  at  the  idea  of 
possessing  so  fine  a  head ;  but  it  was  nearly  as  con- 
venient a  bit  of  bric-a-brac  to  carry  about  in  one's 
satchel  as  a  house  and  lot. 

The  government  is  certainly  by  the  people  out  on 
the  West  Texas  plains.  Functionaries  and  officials 
carry  small  terror  to  the  wild  and  windy  soul  of 
the  plainsman.  The  president  of  the  road  himself 
would  be  treated  well  only  in  proportion  to  his  de- 
serts as  a  brother  mortal.  He  would  receive  only 
what  he  could  command  as  a  man,  or  win  as  a  good 
fellow.  What,  then,  could  the  conductor  of  a  mon- 
grel freight  and  passenger  train  expect  ?  The  same, 
—  neither  more  nor  less.  As  Lefty  Adams  once  said, 
pronouncing  upon  this  subject  for  the  whole  Pan- 
handle, "  Bloated  monopolies  don't  bloat  much  out 
here,  nor  they  don't  monop  none  at  all." 


14          «f»          The  Last  Word  «*» 

The  conductor  packed  my  blankets  and  hides,  my 
steer  horns  and  other  curiosities,  into  his  combina- 
tion car  with  great  meekness.  But  at  Brack  Jacox's 
gift  of  a  glass-eyed  pinto  cutting  pony,  warranted 
to  outrun  anything  in  the  Panhandle,  even  this  un- 
happy conductor  of  a  train  through  West  Texas 
rebelled. 

"  This  ain't  a  cattle  train,"  he  objected. 

"  It  carries  you"  retorted  Brack,  with  free  cow- 
boy wit.  "  Anyhow,  Pinto's  a  gentleman,  and 
couldn't  go  on  anything  less'n  the  vestibule  limited. 
I'll  wait  till  it  comes  along." 

"  Say,"  drawled  Frosty,  "  won't  Pinto  lead  all 
right?  Why  don't  you  tie  him  on  behind?" 

Brack  shook  his  head  decidedly.  "  Never  do  in 
the  world,"  he  replied.  "  He  has  some  speed,  Pinto 
has.  He'd  be  pulling  to  get  ahead,  and  slew  the  old 
rattletrap  off  the  rails." 

While  this  contention  was  in  progress,  Eugene 
Barnes  slipped  up  to  where  I  sat,  and  put  a  palpi- 
tating little  handful  of  a  pelon  dog  into  my  lap  — 
one  of  those  fragile,  high-strung,  sensitive,  hysteri- 
cal, hairless  little  creatures  the  Mexicans  so  love, 
freely  sharing  with  them  bed  and  board,  as  well 
as  the  affections  and  the  secret  hopes  and  fears  of 
their  hearts.  I  happen  to  know  that  Eugene  is  more 
than  suspected  of  reading  poetry.  But  Eugene 
doesn't  know  it ;  he  is  too  prompt  and  willing  a  per- 
former on  the  six-shooter  ever  to  have  this  sort  of 
information  brought  to  him.  Now  he  said  to  me  in 
a  half-whisper,  easing  the  little,  trembling,  big-eyed 
thing  from  his  hands,  where  it  clung  caressingly, 
into  the  strange  world  of  my  lap: 

"  His  name's  Texas.    He  stayed  with  me  when  I 


*^        In  the  Hand  of  the  Wind     <&      15 

was  sole  alone  for  three  months,  keepin'  sign  camp 
for  the  L  Q  on  the  Staked  Plain.  I  reckon  he 
kept  me  from  goin'  crazy.  'Course  there's  a  heap 
o'  difference  between  the  Staked  Plain  and  New 
York.  But  I've  been  thinkin'  a  lot  —  'specially 
since  you  been  a-goin'  there  —  an'  I've  got  the  no- 
tion that  a  man,  er  a  lady,  could  likely  be  as  lone- 
some there  in  that  ocean  o'  folks,  folks,  folks,  as  they 
could  up  on  that  ocean  o'  grass  —  that  hell  o'  lone- 
liness—  where  you  don't  mebby  see  a  human  face 
fer  months  together.  He's  a  sight  o'  comfort  when 
you're  lonesome,  Texas  is." 

At  the  name  the  small  creature  quivered  in  my 
arms,  and  rolled  his  big  prominent  eyes  on  Gene. 

"  You  freeze  to  him,  an'  he'll  freeze  to  you.  No  — 
no  —  no  —  I  won't  take  him  back.  I'm  goin'  off  up 
the  trail  with  a  herd  of  Six  Bars  next  week  anyhow. 
I  couldn't  very  well  take  him,  an'  there's  nobody 
I  want  to  leave  him  with.  You  stay  with  her,  honey. 
She's  a  square  man,  an'  she'll  treat  you  white." 
And  he  turned  away  and  left  us  together. 

I  had  never  been  able  to  like  the  little  hairless 
creatures,  despite  their  delicacy,  elegance,  and  in- 
telligence; but  now,  for  the  moment,  I  hugged  this 
one  close,  and  fancied  (when  I  felt  his  small  heart 
beat  hard  against  my  arm)  that  his  thoughts  and 
mine  were  of  one  fellowship. 

Harvey  Parker  finally  made  what  he  called  a  few 
remarks,  in  the  place  of  that  presentation  address 
which  old  Hank  Pearsall  was  to  have  provided. 
The  engineer  was  untied,  the  various  train-hands, 
who  had  been  out  among  the  cowboys,  were  called 
in;  the  fire  in  the  engine  was,  in  Southern  parlance, 
"  chunked  up ;  "  we  got  up  what  the  released  engi- 


1 6          <&          The  Last  Word  «*» 

neer  called  "  some  steam,"  and  grumbled  and  stut- 
tered away  southward. 

And  so  I  left  Texas. 

Yea,  but  I  carried  Texas  with  me.  The  dark 
levels  raced  past  my  window.  My  heart  sank  and 
sank.  I  have  wept  but  few  times  in  my  life.  It 
seems  to  be  a  kind  of  expression,  and  ra  means  of 
relief  for  a  too-full  heart,  usually  denied  me.  But 
now,  a  forlornness  so  vast  and  appalling  was  upon 
me  that  I  could  not  stem  it  at  all,  and  some  great, 
bitter  tears  fell  down  upon  the  little  pelon  dog's 
back.  Whereat  he  wakened,  looked  up  in  my  eyes, 
and  cried  in  a  little  undertone,  only  ceasing  when 
I  dried  my  tears  and  comforted  him. 

Then  he  trembled  and  slept  again  in  my  arms. 
,And  I  learned  —  too  late,  ah,  too  late !  —  that  which 
has  been  the  tragedy  of  many  enforced  companion- 
ships—  that  he  snored. 


CHAPTER    II. 

"The  Panther's  Feet" 

"  Love's  wings  are  over  fleet, 
And  like  the  panther's  feet, 
The  feet  of  Love." 

MY  journey  southeastward  to  Fort  Worth,  and 
thence  northeastward  to  Kansas  City,  proceeded 
with  most  gratifying  peacefulness,  and  with  an  even 
and  continuous  sinking  of  the  heart  which  was  very 
astonishing  to  me. 

The  easy-going  Texas  conductor  had  let  little 
Texas  go  unchallenged ;  and  we  started  out  of  Kan- 
sas City  at  dusk,  so  that  possibly  that  conductor 
hadn't  noticed  him.  The  car  was  full  of  tall,  big- 
hatted,  deep-voiced  ranchmen.  They  had  been  to 
a  meeting  of  the  Cattlemen's  Association  at  Kansas 
City,  and  were  on  a  junket  to  some  place  twenty 
or  thirty  miles  east. 

They  were  innocently  well  pleased  with  them- 
selves. It  was  a  car-load  of  bluff,  hearty,  masculine, 
high  good  humour.  And  under  the  immediate  in- 
fluence of  so  much  hilarity,  my  spirits  ebbed  and 
ebbed.  For  the  first  time,  I  fully  appreciated  the 
mental  attitude  of  Texas. 

He  cowered  and  trembled  in  my  arms,  plainly 
divided  between  contempt  and  pity  for  the  robust, 
noisy,  happy  crowd  around  him. 


1 8          -^          The  Last  Word  <& 

The  one  exception  to  the  prevailing  jollity  occu- 
pied the  section  opposite  my  own,  —  a  quiet,  distin- 
guished-looking gentleman,  with  an  accusing  air, 
as  though  the  ballasting  of  the  road-bed,  perhaps 
(among  many  minor  shortcomings  of  the  kosmos), 
were  not  done  to  his  taste. 

He  wore  a  handsome,  rough  travelling  suit  and 
a  cloth  travelling  cap  drawn  down  low  on  his  face; 
and  on  the  seat  before  him  were  some  very  elegant 
impedimenta. 

I  was  wiping  away  a  furtive  and  solitary  tear 
when  I  caught  the  gleam  of  his  eyes  below  the  cap- 
visor,  and  I  thought  —  with  a  sense  of  intolerable 
indignity  —  that  he  smiled. 

I  hastily  requested  the  porter  to  make  up  my 
berth ;  and  when  he  had  done  so,  crept  disconsolately 
into  it. 

Next  morning,  while  accomplishing  the  skulking 
and  constricted  dressing  permitted  to  the  occupant 
of  a  Pullman  berth,  my  attention  was  attracted  by 
two  voices  outside  my  curtain,  speaking  of  me. 

Of  these  two  voices,  the  one  which  I  recognised 
as  that  of  the  Pullman  conductor  went  by  my  ears 
unsignifying  as  the  rattle  of  the  train.  The  other 
spoke  in  tones  to  which  I  needs  must  hearken. 
With  all  their  volume,  there  was  a  plangent  quality 
in  their  very  sweetness  which  beat  upon  the  heart 
and  demanded  tribute.  I  cannot  believe  that  such 
a  voice  would  pass  any  consciousness  unmarked. 
But  where  it  found  its  own  —  where  it  was  heard 
indeed  —  that  soul  which  heard  it  must  be  moved, 
and  rise  trembling  to  answer.  It  was  a  voice  to 
set  afloat  a  pulsating  ferment  in  any  woman's  be- 
ing; and  then,  with  its  deep,  thrilling  tenderness, 
to  rock  to  quietness  all  perturbation. 


«$»         "The  Panther's  Feet"       <&       19 

It  made  my  heart  beat  quick  to  know  that  those 
tones  spoke  of  me  at  all;  yet  the  matter  of  the 
remarks,  which  they  just  now  purveyed,  was  such 
that  a  seraph's  tongue  could  not  have  put  them 
forth  in  a  way  to  please. 

"  Against  the  rules,  you  know,"  was  the  declara- 
tion from  the  conductor  which  first  caught  my 
attention. 

"  Don't  take  it  away  from  her,"  remonstrated  the 
golden-voiced  one.  "  Poor  little  soul!  She  is  some 
schoolgirl  being  shipped  East  to  school.  And  she 
is  the  homesickest,  forlornest  small  person  —  leave 
her  the  dog.  It  isn't  bigger  than  a  —  well,  say  a 
curtain-tassel.  It  would  be  very  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose you  never  saw  it.  If  —  '' 

The  voice  dropped  to  a  mere  murmur;  there  fol- 
lowed a  pause,  some  rustling  movement,  and,  pos- 
sibly, another  low-spoken  word  or  two.  Then  the 
conductor  laughed  a  little,  and  said,  "  Guess  I  can 
manage  not  to  see  it.  Did  you  say  the  poor  little 
thing  is  going  to  school  ?  " 

''  Yes,  she  was  crying  last  night,  and  trying  to 
hide  it.  The  dog  doesn't  weigh  more  than  seven 
ounces,  but  he  was  tons  of  comfort  to  her  when 
she  got  well  started  away  from  Kansas  City." 

The  conductor  passed  on.  I  glowed  with  indig- 
nation. I,  who  was  going  to  New  York  to  succeed 
in  journalism!  Not  to  go  into  journalism,  you 
understand;  almost  anybody  may  do  that.  I  bit 
with  unnecessary  force  upon  the  hairpins  between 
my  teeth.  I  would  show  that  individual  with  the 
fine  voice  whether  or  not  I  was  a  poor  little  soul. 
And  the  remembrance  of  those  tears  (or,  more  ex- 
actly, that  tear),  which  I  had  actually  shed  the 
night  before,  increased  my  height  by  several  inches. 


2O          «$»          The  Last  Word  «$» 

When  I  had  made  my  toilet  all  that  it  could  be 
under  that  head-bumping  upper  shelf,  I  emerged 
with  a  haughty  bearing,  which  was  slightly  im- 
paired by  my  incautiously  treading  on  Texas,  and 
being  much  disconcerted  by  his  shrieks.  Recover- 
ing myself,  I  gave  my  neighbour  across  the  way  a 
cold  stare,  and  received  in  return  a  very  genial 
"  Good  morning !  " 

I  was  astonished  to  find  the  owner  of  that  voice, 
and  the  publisher  of  those  very  patronising  remarks, 
a  young  man,  almost  boyish  looking.  He  was 
neither  much  older  nor  much  taller  than  myself,  I 
decided,  which  added  to  the  offensiveness  of  his 
calling  me  a  "  poor  little  thing." 

In  spite  of  the  interest  in  my  affairs  which  he 
had  expressed  to  the  conductor,  he  did  not,  after 
his  first  greeting,  look  my  way  again  for  some  time, 
so  that  I  had  all  my  haughtiness  and  rancour  to 
myself,  along  with  an  excellent  opportunity  to  study 
him. 

I  draw  now  upon  later  knowledge  of  his  face 
in  describing  it.  It  is  well-nigh  impossible  for 
me  to  go  back  and  remember  exactly  what  were  my 
first  impressions  of  it.  A  young  face,  a  very  stern 
face,  the  handsome  chin  coming  forward  with  a 
resolution  almost  cruel;  fresh-coloured,  clear-eyed, 
but  grim,  reserved,  unsocial.  Some  few  hairs  in 
his  fine  brows  left  the  sleek  company  of  their 
down-lying  fellows,  grew  long  and  strong,  and 
stood  forward,  a  thing  you  have  seen  sometimes 
in  the  brows  of  wilful,  choleric  old  men,  but  which 
had  an  odd  effect  upon  this  smooth  young  counte- 
nance. 

The  air  about  him  of  distinction,  of  race  —  lin- 


•&         "The  Panther's  Feet"        <&       21 

cage  —  and  breeding  was  as  unmistakable  as  occult 
and  undefinable.  And  he  bore,  as  assuredly  and  as 
indescribably,  the  mark  of  high  place  in  the  mate- 
rial world.  He  would  have  been  recognised  in 
Patagonia,  I  decided,  studying  his  half-averted, 
indifferent  face,  for  a  man  of  weight  and  honours 
in  that  world,  one  who  moved  and  commanded  men 
and  affairs. 

Finally,  when  he  rose,  still  without  looking  at 
me  —  I  think  he  took  me  to  be  very  shy,  and  was 
sparing  my  blushes  —  he  proffered  the  book  he  had 
been  reading,  and  went  on  down  the  car,  and  out  to 
dinner.  The  train  was  halted  at  the  dinner  station, 
so  that,  looking  after  him,  I  got  his  real  bearing 
and  walk,  something  which,  in  spite  of  its  lightness 
and  grace,  must  be  described  as  a  belligerent  roll. 

I  turned  to  the  book  he  had  laid  beside  me  on 
the  seat.  You  may  resent  the  hand  that  brought 
it,  but  a  book  is  never  a  creature  to  be  slighted. 
It  was  a  worn  little  leather-clad  volume,  whose 
very  sides  and  edges  appealed  straight  to  my  heart, 
for  it  was  very  evident  that  it  had  been  specially 
bound  for  a  loving  owner. 

That  is  the  dearest  thing  about  a  book,  and  one 
of  the  many  advantages  books  have  over  people. 
We  are  never  jealous  of  the  number  of  those  who 
love  our  books.  The  people  we  love,  some  of  us, 
at  least,  would  like  to  put  in  convents  or  prisons, 
so  that  no  eyes  but  our  own  jealous  ones  could 
look  upon  them  and  appreciate  their  beauties;  but 
there  is  always,  for  us,  something  to  love  in  the 
people  who  have  loved  our  books.  And,  conversely, 
the  sight  of  a  worn  little  volume,  which  some  other 
human  being  has  plainly  loved,  brings  a  gush  of 
affection. 


22          «$*          The  Last  Word  «$» 

With  some  trepidation,  I  opened  the  pages.  It 
would  be  a  mathematical  treatise,  of  course,  or  a 
technical  handbook  of  geology. 

Dropped  in  across  the  title-page  was  a  card,  which 
bore  the  inscription,  "  Francis  Garnett  Randolph, 
The  Pakenham,  New  York."  The  name  was 
strangely  familiar.  I  wondered  where  I  had  seen 
it;  and  then  forgot  my  wonderment  when  I  found 
the  little  book  was  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam. 

I  turned  the  leaves.  It  was  marked,  all  through, 
in  a  sort  of  cipher,  and  thumbed  and  turned  down, 
and  defaced  with  much  loving,  as  my  own  copy  is. 
The  marks,  of  course,  gave  me  an  insight  into  the 
character  of  my  neighbour.  Francis  Garnett  Ran- 
dolph, —  where  had  I  heard  that  name  before  ? 

When  he  came  back,  I  was  disposed  to  be  friendly. 
He  brought  with  him  a  local  morning  paper  and  an 
air  of  preoccupation.  "  Thank  you  so  much/'  I 
said,  presenting  the  little  book,  although  I  could 
have  wished  to  keep  it. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  returned,  with  an  elderly-uncle 
air;  "have  you  read  all  you  want  to  in  it?" 

With  the  inquiry,  he  gave  me  a  rather  shrewd 
look,  which  made  me  fancy  the  Rubaiyat  had  been 
advanced  as  a  test.  "  I  know  it  all  by  heart,"  I 
answered,  "  but  it  is  a  pleasure  to  hold  the  book 
and  look  at  it." 

I  saw  in  his  face  a  gleam  of  interest  in  a  school- 
girl who  knew  the  Rubaiyat  by  heart.  It  was  mo- 
mentary, however,  and  he  turned  to  his  paper  and 
forgot  me. 

I  am  the  most  gregarious  of  creatures.  I  love 
my  kind.  Indeed,  when  hard  pressed,  I  love  some 
who  are  not  my  kind  at  all.  I  think  if  I  were 


«$»         "The  Panther's  Feet"        •&       23 

cast  away  on  a  desert  island,  and  the  cannibals  were 
preparing  to  make  pot  au  feu  of  me,  I  should  chirrup 
up  to  them,  and  try  to  be  sociable  while  the  water 
heated.  I  wished  my  neighbour  were  not  so  surly. 
We  had  the  whole  end  of  the  car  to  ourselves;  I 
watched  the  flat,  unlovely  landscape  race  past  my 
window,  and  teased  Texas,  who  slept  fitfully,  and 
regarded  my  efforts  with  contempt. 

I  took  the  little  Rubaiyat,  and  amused  myself 
by  reckoning  how  closely  Mr.  Randolph's  marks 
therein  tallied  with  mine  in  my  own  volume.  I 
found  that,  while  I  had  marked  everything  philo- 
sophic, optimistic,  picturesque,  or  sheerly  beautiful, 
he  had  set  his  pencil  to  the  grim  truths.  I  was 
bursting  with  this  bit  of  information,  when  I  looked 
up  and  found  his  amused  eyes  fixed  upon  me. 

"  Well  ?  "  interrogatively.  Then  he  rose  and 
crossed  the  aisle,  remarking,  "  I  will  come  over 
and  talk  with  you  awhile." 

The  assertion  appeared  to  need  no  acceptance, 
so  I  simply  made  room  for  him,  saying,  "  Certainly." 

"  Do  you  like  Omar?  "  he  began,  with  caution. 

I  nodded,  adding,  "  But  I  don't  like  him  for  the 
same  things  you  do." 

"No?"  still  with  that  irritating  manner  of  a 
grown  man  talking  to  a  child.  "  How  did  you  ar- 
rive at  your  conclusions  as  to  what  I  like  him  for  ?  " 

"  Your  markings,  of  course,"  I  answered.  "  Now 
mine  —  it  is  just  about  as  shabby  and  well  worn 
as  this  —  has  every  bit  of  sunshine  and  beauty  and 
whimsicality  and  audacity  in  it  marked.  You  have 
taken  the  shadow." 

"  Not  the  shadow,  by  any  means,"  he  returned, 
smilingly ;  "  the  hard  reality.  I  haven't  much  lik- 
ing for  moonshine  and  molasses.  I  want  the  truth." 


24          "$»          The  Last  Word  «$» 

"  So  do  I.  But  why  not  a  happy  truth  as  well 
as  a  gloomy  one?  " 

He  looked  at  me,  silent  for  a  moment,  and  I  saw 
in  his  face  the  protest  that  truth  was  never  happy. 
He  did  not  voice  it,  however,  but  merely  answered, 
"  Well,  the  truth  at  all  hazards.  For  my  part,  if 
I  cannot  live  by  it,  I  am  willing  to  die  for  it." 

"  Indeed !  "  I  said.  "  To  my  mind,  dying  would 
be  a  very  poor  sort  of  compliment  to  pay  to  truth. 
You  must  be  younger  than  I  am,  and  I'm  certainly 
not  preparing  to  die  yet.  Why  should  you  be  talk- 
ing about  it  ?  " 

"  I !  Younger  than  you !  "  he  cried.  "  Oh,  come, 
come !  That  is  a  joke.  I  see  now  that  I  was  at  first 
somewhat  deceived  in  the  matter  of  your  years.  I 
took  you  for  a  girl  going  East  to  school,  and  kept 
looking  at  every  likely  station  for  the  crowd  of 
schoolmates  and  teacher  to  meet  you." 

This  was  the  opportunity  I  had  desired.  I  drew 
myself  up  with  dignity,  and  announced  that  I  was 
going  to  New  York  to  take  a  position  with  a  syn- 
dicate in  a  large  publishing  house.  As  I  mentioned 
the  name  of  my  future  employers,  he  looked  oddly 
at  me,  but  made  no  comment,  except  to  say,  "  The 
literary  life  in  New  York  is  a  very  trying  one  for 
a  woman.  I  have  seen  many  of  them  break  down 
at  it  —  I  go  there  myself  sometimes." 

"  Why  is  it  especially  trying  to  a  woman  ? "  I 
inquired,  sharply. 

"  A  woman,  a  nice  woman,  is  too  sensitive,  or 
rather,  her  sensibilities  are  too  keen,  for  that  life. 
Yours  are.  Your  very  humour  betrays  you.  Why, 
last  night,"  and  he  smiled  at  the  retrospect,  "  I 
thought  I  had  never  seen  so  forlorn  a  little  figure. 


<&         "The  Panther's  Feet"        «*>       25 

You  need  some  one  to  take  care  of  you.  Every 
nice  woman  does." 

"  And  a  good  many  nice  men,"  I  put  in,  calmly ; 
whereat  he  laughed,  and  owned  that  it  was  true. 

"  If  it's  all  the  same  to  you  and  the  rest  of  man- 
kind," I  resumed,  "  I  have  no  use,  in  the  business 
of  my  daily  life,  for  an  aureole  or  pedestal;  they 
both  are  troublesome  to  tote  around.  I  would 
rather  any  time  be  a  first-rate  human  being  than  a 
poor,  second-rate  goddess." 

My  companion  looked  at  me  for  the  first  time 
with  actual  heed.  He  appeared  to  find  my  remarks 
worthy  of  consideration  and  extended  reply. 

It  was  past  noon.  The  books  or  papers  which  at 
morning  promised  diversion  had  grown  hopelessly 
stale;  so  he  sat  and  talked  to  me  with  increasing 
interest  and  absorption. 

He  was  crude,  but  forcible,  with  the  endless  charm 
of  a  salient  and  expressive  personality. 

For  me,  this  charm  was  trebled,  as  I  found  at 
every  turn  the  inference  that  he  was  not  so  out- 
spoken with  others,  that  the  rare  fascination  of  his 
unbending  came  in  response  to  a  charm  as  unusual 
which  I  held  for  him. 

It  was  a  very  subtle  stimulus  and  flattery,  to  see 
this  reserved  nature  open  its  gates  to  me ;  to  find  my- 
self, not  only  admitted  within  them,  but  presently 
all  its  inmates,  clad  and  smiling,  set  forth  to  greet 
me,  to  hold  council  and  make  cheer  with  me. 

We  talked,  as  people  newly  met  upon  a  journey 
do  talk,  of  a  vast  array  of  floating  subjects.  And 
finally,  when  we  had  grown  to  feel  well  acquainted, 
we  reached  down  for  deeper  things. 

That  the  possessor  of  such  a  voice  should  break 


26          <&          The  Last  Word  «$» 

the  hearts  of  maids  was  a  thing  which  could  not 
justly  be  laid  to  his  charge.  A  civil  speech,  in  those 
tones,  passed  for  the  utterances  of  love  itself. 

I  found  him  about  two  decades  behind  his  time. 
A  true  Bourbon,  his  young,  powerful  mind  was 
evolving  and  enunciating  views  and  theories  which 
have  been  superseded  or  exploded  these  twenty 
years. 

"  I  am  a  conservative,"  he  announced;  "  and  par- 
ticularly so  in  regard  to  the  new  movement  in 
women's  affairs." 

"  That  is  to  say,"  I  retorted,  "  instead  of  taking 
a  new  idea  by  the  hand,  you  take  it  by  the  throat  — 
that's  conservatism  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  shall  not  discountenance  me  with  an 
epigram,"  he  smiled.  "  I'll  warrant  you  speak  very 
boldly,  but  are  at  heart  and  in  act  a  conservative  — 
otherwise  a  very  woman." 

After  we  had  talked  for  some  time  with  eager 
interest  on  both  sides,  "  A  woman  needs  love,"  he 
asserted,  rather  unexpectedly.  "  She  needs  to  love 
and  be  loved,  that  her  heart  may  be  strengthened. 
Deny  her  that,  and  she  is  a  poor,  desolate  creature." 

"  Oh,  if  that  is  all,"  I  answered,  easily,  "  I  shall 
get  on  swimmingly.  I  always  loved  numbers  of 
people,  and  many  of  them  have  no  better  sense  than 
to  take  to  me." 

My  neighbour  gave  me  a  smiling  look.  "  Do  you 
know,"  he  said,  in  the  lowered  tone  of  one  impart- 
ing a  state  secret,  "  I  have  been  guessing  something 
like  that  about  you." 

"  You  are  a  clever  person,"  I  answered,  briefly. 

"  And  do  you  know,  also,"  he  went  on,  "  that, 
try  as  you  may,  you  cannot  quite  get  away  from 


^         "The  Panther's  Feet"        «?*       27 

the  pedestal  and  aureole?  I  fancy  there  will  always 
be  some  one,  or  two,  or  more  unfortunates,  setting 
you  up  and  adoring  you.  For  my  part,  I  began  at 
ten  years  old  with  a  reverence  for  women  and  a 
belief  in  their  semi-divinity.  It's  my  experience, 
since  my  manhood,  that  has  made  me  doubt  those 
early  ideals." 

"  Been  finding  a  bad  sort  of  folks  in  the  world  ?  " 
I  inquired. 

"  I  got  a  good  many  of  my  ideas  of  women  from 
reading  Shakespeare  and  Scott;  but  it  has  appeared 
to  me  of  late  years  that,  if  the  bard  and  Sir  Walter 
were  to  look  for  heroines  among  the  modern  prod- 
uct, they  would  have  to  reconstruct  their  plays  and 
their  books." 

"  Dear  me,"  I  remarked,  solicitously,  "  you  must 
be  an  unpleasant  sort  of  person,  rather  a  wicked 
individual,  to  find  all  this  badness  in  the  world  — 
or  maybe,"  innocently,  "  this  is  just  schoolboy  cyn- 
icism, which  will  wear  off  when  you  have  been 
about  a  little." 

"  That  more  than  pays  your  debt,"  he  laughed. 
"  I  only  said  that  you  looked  like  a  schoolgirl  — 
not  that  you  thought  like  one.  But  I  tell  you,  I 
honestly  believe  that  the  average  club-man,  with  all 
his  vulgar  selfishness,  has  purer  ideals  than  most 
society  women,  and  is  not  nearly  so  daring  and  base 
in  his  wickedness  as  they.  The  thing  which  makes 
a  woman  worse  than  a  man,  when  she  fails  to  be 
better,  is  that  she  fights  behind  a  barrier.  She  will 
accept  no  consequences.  She  would  not  brave  the 
world  for  any  consideration ;  but  if  a  thing  may  be 
safely  done,  the  smallest  temptation  answers  for  her. 
A  woman  like  that  will  talk  love  to  you  by  the  yard, 


28          ^          The  Last  Word  <$> 

while  she  has  no  conception  of  what  the  word  means, 
and  in  her  heart  considers  Juliet  a  fool." 

My  neighbour  was  coming  out  famously.  "  Have 
you,"  I  asked,  "  any  conception  of  the  meaning  of 
it?  Can  you  define  it?" 

"Can  you?"  he  countered. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "  I  could  if  I  wanted  to.  It 
is  the  thing  best  worth  having  in  the  world.  It  is 
the  finding  of  some  one  whose  faults  you  can  toler- 
ate. "  Wait !  "  I  cried,  as  he  moved  to  interrupt  me. 
"  We  are  all  faulty  creatures,  of  course,  so  none  of 
us  need  look  for  another  human  being  without  a 
fault.  If  we  could  find  such  a  one,  he  would  only 
act  as  a  standipg  reproach  to  us,  and  we  could  not 
love  him.  We  do  not  love  people  for  their  virtues, 
anyhow.  We  love  them,  as  I  asserted  in  the  first 
place,  because  they  have  the  qualities  we  like  and 
the  faults  we  can  tolerate." 

"  A  pretty  good  description  of  friendship,"  ob- 
served my  neighbour,  calmly. 

"  Oh,  it  is,  is  it  ?  Well,  suppose  you  try  your 
hand  at  a  definition,  since  mine  does  not  suit.  A 
man  who  can  mark  the  Rubaiyat  in  the  way  you  did 
ought  to  be  able  to  give  a  most  tender  and  moving 
characterisation  of  love." 

"  Love,"  said  my  neighbour,  looking  absently 
across  the  Illinois  flats,  "  is  a  thing  apart,  a  thing 
consummate  —  and  —  and  terrible.  It  knows  noth- 
ing of  traits  and  qualities.  It  concerns  itself  as  little 
with  the  virtues  as  with  the  faults  of  its  object. 
If  the  gods  send  you  this  divine  passion  in  its  ful- 
ness, you  would  love  her  just  the  same  were  she 
a  queen,  or  —  the  lowest  of  the  earth.  She  would 
be  beautiful  to  you  equally  in  silks  or  in  rags.  Her 


«f»         "The  Panther's  Feet"        «Q»       29 

voice  would  be  the  dearest  music  to  you,  whatever 
it  said.  And  once  let  this  feeling  be  born  in  your 
heart,  it  can  never  perish  out  of  it.  It  is  immortal, 
as  its  source  is  immortal." 

"  Why,  that  is  not  love,"  I  commented,  cheer- 
fully ;  "  that  is  merely  some  mental  ailment.  I  don't 
know  about  the  divineness,  but  it  would  certainly  be 
terrible.  The  next  thing,  you  will  be  admitting 
that  you  have  an  ideal  woman  in  your  mind." 

"  I  have,"  he  said.  "  My  mother  is  my  ideal  of 
womanhood.  She  married  my  father  when  she  was 
eighteen.  He  has  been  gone  from  us  two  years. 
She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  a  gifted,  charming  woman ; 
but  she  kept  always  the  best  of  her  for  the  home 
circle.  She  was  not  seeking  a  sphere.  She  made 
my  father  a  loving,  obedient  wife  to  the  day  of  his 
death." 

"A  what-ient  wife?"  I  gasped. 

"  Obedient.  Oh,  I  see,  you  object  to  the  word. 
Why  do  you  ?  He  loved  her.  He  laid  no  commands 
upon  her  which  were  not  for  her  good.  In  a  part- 
nership such  as  that,  one  of  the  two  must  surrender 
individual  will  —  why  not  say  so?  Why  not  use 
the  word?" 

"  No  reason,"  I  returned,  heartily.  "  After  I  had 
brought  myself  to  do  the  thing  itself,  the  word 
would  certainly  be  a  small  matter." 

"And  love  —  " 

"Love!"  I  cried.  "The  love  that  puts  hands 
on  the  loved  object  —  do  you  call  that  loving? 
Why,  so  are  potatoes  loved!  I  love  them,  we  say, 
I  want  them  for  my  dinner.  I  lay  hold  of  them, 
to  tear  and  pierce  them  with  a  knife,  and  torture 
them  with  hot  water,  or  fat,  or  an  oven  seven  times 


30          ^»          The  Last  Word  <&> 

heated.    In  all  this,  what  thought  is  of  the  potatoes, 

—  of  their  wishes,  preferences,  development,  life?" 
"  There  you  go  —  " 

"  I  tell  you  the  love  that  lays  hands  on  the  be- 
loved, that  seeks  or  hopes  or  expects  something  in 
return,  is  the  love  that  enslaves.  And  there  is  no 
love,  deserving  the  sacred  name,  but  that  which 
liberates." 

"  Oh,  this  new  —  " 

"HI  love  a  man  "  —  his  frowning  face  cleared 

—  "  if  I  love  him,  I  set  him  free.    He  must  be  him- 
self,   free,   whole,   unmarred,   individual,   thrall   to 
none,  least  of  all  to  me  who  love  him.    And  I  - 

"  Now  listen  to  me  a  moment.  Take  our  two 
selves,  for  instance  —  " 

"  For  instance,"  I  echoed,  encouragingly,  and  he 
glanced  at  me  keenly  to  see  if  it  were  possible  I 
could  be  sarcastic. 

"  This  is  not  personal,"  he  asserted,  with  dignity. 
<;  I  said  '  for  instance.' ' 

"  Of  course  you  did,"  I  rejoined,  soothingly. 
'*  Certainly,  you  could  not  be  more  impersonal  than 
that." 

He  looked  me  over,  and  decided  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  with  me.  "  Well,"  he  began, 
"  if  you  and  I  were  married,  I  venture  to  assert  that 
you  would  want  to  give  me  the  deference  of  a  nom- 
inal obedience  — 

"  I  should  be  your  slave,  of  course,"  he  added, 
hastily,  as  he  saw  the  signs  of  rising  revolt  in  my 
face,  "  but  it  would  be  like  your  rich,  generous 
nature  to  crown  me  a  king." 

I  had  the  sensation  of  a  child  who  has  been  shut 
up  in  a  closet,  but  given  a  sugar-stick  to  keep  it 


^         "The  Panther's  Feet"        <*>       31 

stuffy,  prison  company.  "  I  should  never  play  a  king 
when  a  queen  would  take  the  trick,"  I  muttered, 
angrily,  and  refused  to  speak  for  any  lure  till  we 
had  passed  Joliet  and  were  steaming  into  the  last 
stopping-place  before  Chicago. 

Then  my  neighbour,  who  had  given  up  his  first 
careless  attempts  to  resume  our  conversation,  said, 
softly,  "  Did  you  know  that  I  am  getting  off  at 
Chicago  —  or,  rather,  that  I  am  only  going  so  far 
East,  just  now,  as  Chicago?" 

"No,"  I  answered;  "I'm  sorry." 

"  Oh,  we  are  to  meet  each  other  again."  And, 
in  reply  to  my  puzzled  glance,  "It  is  written  in  the 
stars.  Why,  I  could  tell  you  a  great  many  things 
about  yourself,  of  which  you  have  not  seen  fit  to 
inform  me.  I  even  know  your  name." 

"  It's  on  my  bag,"  I  cut  in,  jealously. 

"  I  haven't  looked  at  your  bag,"  he  smiled;  "  but 
I  know  that  your  name  is  Miss  Carrington  West, 
and  that  you  left  Emerald  City  at  some  unearthly 
hour  Tuesday  morning  to  go  into  — " 

"  No,  not  to  go  into  journalism !  To  succeed  in 
journalism !  " 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  say  journalism,"  he  defended 
himself,  laughing.  "  I  was  going  to  state  what 
office  you  were  to  enter,  but  I  remembered  just  in 
time  that  you  had  told  it  to  me  yourself;  so  you 
would  see  no  wizardry  in  it.  However,  I  am  to  see 
you  again.  We  are  to  be  great  friends.  We  may 
live  to  be  very  old  people,  quite  side  by  side,  and 
die  on  the  same  day." 

"  I  think  I  told  you  that  I  had  a  prejudice  against 
dying,"  I  answered,  rather  crustily.  *'  You  may 
die  on  your  own  day,  if  you  please,  and  let  me  scuffle 
for  myself." 


32          <f»          The  Last  Word  «f» 

He  laughed  indulgently  at  me.  "  I  wish  you 
would  play,"  he  begged  finally,  "  that  we  were  cast 
away  on  a  desert  island,  just  we  two,  with  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  out  of  reach,  or  swept  away. 
We'd  be  pretty  frank  with  each  other  under  those 
circumstances,  wouldn't  we  ?  " 

"  It's  like  playing  '  Truth  Upon  Honour.' ' 

"How  is  that?" 

"  Did  you  never  play  it  when  you  were  a  child  ? 
You  put  all  your  hands  in  stacks  (that  sounds  as 
if  we  had  eight  or  ten  apiece,  doesn't  it?),  and,  as 
each  player  withdraws  his  hand,  he  answers  truly 
—  truth  upon  honour  —  a  question  which  the  other 
players  ask  him." 

"  That's  it,  exactly,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Let's  play 
it  now." 

The  little  table  on  which  my  lunch  had  been 
spread,  hours  ago,  was  before  us.  He  laid  upon 
it  a  smooth,  muscular,  handsome  right  hand.  I  put 
one  of  mine  over  it,  his  left  covered  that,  and  then 
with  mine  the  stack  was  complete. 

"  You  have  '  first  goes,'  "  he  said,  wickedly. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  I  answered,  serenely.  "  You  al- 
ways withdraw  the  hand  at  the  bottom  of  the  stack. 
Wait  a  minute,  I  haven't  decided  what  I  want  to 
ask  you."  Then,  abruptly,  "Are  you  married?" 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  flushed.  "  No,"  he  an- 
swered, with  sudden  seriousness,  "  I  am  not  mar- 
ried now,  but  I  hope  soon  to  be." 

The  words  in  themselves  were  perfectly  innocent. 
He  was  no  doubt  telling  me  of  some  girl  in  New 
York  to  whom  he  was  paying  court.  Yet,  as  I  sat 
there,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  my  face,  I  would 
have  given  all  I  possessed  —  the  toads,  Navajo 


*»         "The  Panther's  Feet"        «*       33 

blankets,  rattlesnake  skins,  even  the  buffalo  head  — 
for  extra  composure;  and  that  which  I  had  fled  to 
the  winds,  to  leave  me  blushing  like  a  schoolgirl 
indeed. 

"  What  are  you  blushing  about?  " 

"  Nothing,"  I  answered,  resentfully.  "  I  mean 
I  am  not  blushing  at  all  —  I  never  blush.  It's  your 
turn  to  ask." 

"  Such  lovely  colour  you  have,  and  so  much  of 
it,"  he  whispered,  very  softly,  as  I  drew  out  my 
hand.  He  must  have  had  his  query  ready,  for  it 
followed  instantly.  "  Did  you  like  me  at  first  ?  Do 
you  like  me  a  little  now  ?  " 

"  You  can't  ask  two  questions,"  I  objected,  in- 
dignantly. "  I  won't  be  in  it  unless  you  play  fair." 

"  Answer  the  first,  then,"  he  demanded.  "  No, 
the  second." 

"  I  shall  not  answer  either  of  them,"  I  replied, 
with  dignity.  "  It  is  all  childish  nonsense,  too  silly 
for  grown  people  to  be  indulging  in." 

My  hand,  which  remained  upon  the  table,  was 
caught  and  held  in  a  firm,  masterful  grip. 

:<  Yes,  you  will  answer.  I  may  be  younger  than 
you,  and  not  much  of  a  fellow,  but  I  am  not  going 
to  be  cheated  in  any  such  fashion.  You  did  not 
like  me  at  first,  I  could  see  that;  but  then,  I  didn't 
—  I  mean,  I  wasn't  caring  for  anybody.  I  confess 
to  having  been  in  an  unlovely  mood.  You  do  like 
me  better  now,  don't  you  ?  And  before  we  are  done 
with  it,  you're  going  to  1 —  " 

The  conductor  opened  the  door  just  back  of  us, 
and  said,  with  a  smile,  "  You're  getting  off  here, 
sir ;  "  then,  in  answer  to  an  inquiring  look  from  me, 
"  You  go  on  in  to  the  Central,  miss." 


34          •&          The  Last  Word  ^» 

My  companion  went  over  and  gathered  up  his 
belongings.  It  seemed  as  though  years  had  passed 
since  he  crossed  the  little  dividing  space  of  aisle  — 
possibly  four  hours  ago  —  to  talk  to  me.  And,  as 
the  thought  flitted  before  my  mind,  he  glanced  at 
me  above  the  valise  he  was  closing,  and  said,  with 
his  rare,  illuminating  smile,  and  indicating  his  pos- 
sessions with  a  little  motion  of  the  graceful  head : 

"  I  thought,  like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  to  have  'found 
them  mildewed  and  decayed.  But  mine  was  an 
awakening  —  not  a  sleep." 

The  train  beginning  to  slacken  speed,  he  left  his 
preparations  completed,  and  came  to  me  to  say  good- 
bye. I  did  not  rise.  He  did  not  sit  down  again. 
As,  in  the  dusking  shadow  of  late  afternoon,  he 
bent  over  me,  I  raised  my  face,  resolved  to  smile 
a  pleasant  farewell;  but  he  looked  deeply  into  my 
eyes,  so  that  the  smile  did  not  come. 

It  was  a  great,  terrible,  wondrous  thing  which 
had  entered  into  this  my  world,  and  moved  and 
shaken  it  so.  If  Love's  self  had  willed  to  come  and 
sit  down  beside  me  in  my  solitude  and  isolation  of 
heart,  he  could  not,  meseemed,  have  chosen  to  come 
otherwise  than  in  this  semblance.  What  aspect 
could  he  have  worn  more  subduing  than  this  nature, 
with  faults  so  palpable,  weaknesses  and  discrepan- 
cies so  manifest,  but  such  winning  and  compelling 
sweetness  reserved;  this  young,  fine,  salient  per- 
sonality, almost  pungently  masculine,  and  almost 
saturninely  reticent,  which  warmed  and  opened  and 
smiled  to  me  —  to  me  —  to  my  touch  ? 

The  grave,  melodious  voice  was  a  caress  upon  the 
ear  —  upon  the  heart.  These  eyes,  protean  in  col- 
our as  in  expression,  had  but  to  relax  the  sternness 


«*         "The  Panther's  Feet"        «f»       35 

of  their  ,;ard  under  those  choleric  brows  for  their 
every  j.-.  ;ce  to  be  an  endearment.  This  voice  which 
caressed  me,  these  eyes  which  caressed  me,  and  this 
head,  whose  movement  as  it  leant  toward  me,  was 
the  most  gracious  caress  of  all ;  the  rare  smile  which 
lightened  over  the  grim,  powerful,  half-resentful 
young  countenance,  so  movingly  sweet  —  surely 
this  would  be  love's  chosen  guise  and  mien.  As  the 
hours  passed,  and  that  lovely  voice  talked  on;  as. 
turning  to  answer,  I  looked  up  at  the  beautiful  head 
bent  down  to  me,  and  encountered  the  deep,  changing 
eyes  still  fixed  on  my  face,  a  panic  would  suddenly 
seize  me.  This  presage  which  vibrated  in  the  air 
I  breathed  —  this  sweetness  and  longing  and  prom- 
ise —  what  were  they  ?  What  the  keen  half  bliss, 
half  pain,  that  thrilled  through  me  when  I  met  the 
smile  of  those  eyes,  or  when  that  deep  voice  said 
"love"  or  "my  heart?"  (He  pronounced  it 
hawrt,  lingering  caressingly  upon  the  broad,  soft 
vowel,  and  almost  eliding  the  r.) 

And,  as  the  instinct  is  at  such  a  time,  I  would 
search  his  face  jealously,  but  furtively,  demanding 
if  it  were  with  him  even  as  it  was  with  me.  Was 
this  glamour  upon  him,  also  ?  Did  something  trem- 
ble in  the  air  about  him  ?  Was  he  stirred  and  shaken 
—  taken  away  from  himself  ? 

Now,  as  I  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  that  de- 
feated and  refused  the  smile  with  which  I  would 
have  met  them,  the  air  throbbed  again  with  that 
alarm  and  that  question. 

But  an  answer  was  written  plain  in  the  face 
bent  toward  mine.  "  I  am  leaving  you  —  now,"  he 
faltered ;  and  for  one  swaying  instant  that  my  eyes 
could  not  turn  away  from  his,  it  seemed  that  he 
must  take  me  in  his  arms  and  kiss  me. 


36          «$»          The  Last  Word  «$» 

Then,  with  a  quick  breath,  as  of  pain,  which  I 
heard  my  companion  echo,  I  withdrew  my  gaze. 
We  were  once  more  in  the  world  of  realities.  I 
gave  my  hand,  which  was  taken  closely  and  warmly 
in  his  vital  clasp.  We  smiled  now;  and  he  made 
his  adieus  quite  as  though  we  were  old  friends. 
"  I  shall  see  you  soon  in  New  York.  No  need  to 
give  you  an  address  "  (he  had  not  asked  if  I  would 
write  to  him). 

I  saw  him  from  the  window.  He  never  looked 
back;  I  recognised  that  as  characteristic,  and  felt 
a  strange  little  premonitory  chill,  which  I  regarded 
as  impertinent. 

I  sat  and  watched  his  departing  figure  cross  the 
platform  and  pass  through  the  gates.  Yes,  bellig- 
erent was  the  word  to  describe  the  squaring  of  those 
shoulders,  the  swing  of  the  whole  form;  and  yet 
—  was  there  ever  another  like  it? 

I  made  as  though  I  would  have  turned  to  Texas 
and  my  book,  but  my  soul  was  not  deceived.  It 
knew  that  all  interest  had  gone  out  of  both,  that 
it  had  got  off  the  train,  crossed  the  platform,  arid 
walked  through  the  gate,  where  the  fat  official  in 
brass  buttons  stood. 

The  Significance  of  All  Things  had  walked  away 
with  Francis  Garnett  Randolph,  whom,  in  the  secur- 
ity of  my  own  mind,  I  called  thenceforward  Frank. 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  Now   We   Are   Come   to   Our 
Kingdom  " 

"  A  power 
"  Girt  round  with  weakness ;  it  can  scarce  uplift 

The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow." 

HE  was  an  elegant  young  person,  this  new  editor 
of  mine  with  the  old  Knickerbocker  name,  acute, 
clever,  perfectly  groomed,  an  excellent  type  of  the 
highly  evolved  American.  But  I  was  fresh  and 
green  from  my  Texas  pastures;  too  broncho  to  fed 
any  awe  of  him,  I  treated  him  much  as  I  would 
treat  one  of  our  cowboys. 

Whether  or  no  he  felt  this  as  a  bleak  alteration 
from  the  atmosphere  of  myrrh  and  frankincense,  the 
reek  of  the  burnt  offering  in  which  an  editor  lives, 
he  assumed  toward  me,  with  what  I  decided  was 
flattering  precipitancy,  an  attitude  of  kindly  pat- 
ronage. 

"  Of  course  you  feel  very  small  and  very  lone- 
some here  just  at  first,"  he  remarked. 

"But  I  don't,"  I  rejoined;  "I  haven't  at  all." 

Without  seeming  to  hear  me,  he  continued  res- 
olutely, "  You  see  the  importance  of  the  individual 

37 


38          «$»          The  Last  Word  «$» 

shrinks  surprisingly  when  he  is  so  infinitely  multi- 
plied, when  he  is  presented  to  your  observation  as 
one  variation  among  five  millions,  or  as  an  exception 
—  of  forty  thousand  exceptions  —  to  the  rule  of  five 
hundred  thousand." 

I  hastened  to  interrupt,  "  I  don't  care  — 

But  he  ran  right  over  me.  "  And  this  sort  of 
shrinkage  in  relative  value  of  the  ego  gives,  to  one 
accustomed,  like  yourself,  to  make  quite  a  figure  in 
his  country  neighbourhood  or  small  town,  a  sense 
of  painful  littleness  and  insignificance  —  the  lost, 
snowed-under  feeling  traditionally  the  lot  and  por- 
tion of  the  obscure  stranger  in  a  great  city." 

He  had  said  it  now,  and  leaned  back  at  peace. 

"  But  I  tell  you,"  I  reiterated,  "  I  don't  feel  that 
way  at  all." 

My  editor  tipped  the  top  of  his  head  back  a  lit- 
tle more,  half  closed  one  eye,  and  examined  me 
shrewdly  with  the  other.  "  You  were  told  you 
would,  and  you've  been  determined  not  to,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Certainly,"  I  assured  him,  "  I  am  told  so  and 
condoled  with  over  it  continually.  The  sensation 
was  most  unanimously  promised  me  when  I  came 
here,  by  everybody  who  saw  me  off  from  my  native 
wilds,  by  everybody  else  who  knew  of  my  coming 
away,  and  I  confidently  looked  forward  to  experienc- 
ing it ;  but  I  haven't  —  I  never  have  at  all." 

"Oh,  you  haven't?" 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  I  repeated,  stoutly,  though 
aware  of  the  sarcasm  in  his  tone.  "  I  hold  him  but 
a  poor  creature  who  stands  lacking  in  sight  of  all 
that  he  desires,  who  cannot  take  possession  by  the 
eye,  For  me,  I  have  come  easily  into  my  fee  here." 


«f>    "  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  «$»  39 

"  Oh,  yes,"  agreed  my  editor,  somewhat  quizzi- 
cally. "  It's  evident  you  own  the  town." 

"  I  do.  I've  been  here  five  and  a  half  days,  and 
I've  made  it  all  mine  and  taken  stock  of  most  of  it." 

"  I  shall  be  glad,"  said  Mr.  DeWitt,  meditatively, 
"  when  you  meet  the  president  of  our  company.  I 
wish  he  could  hear  you  now,  or  rather,  I  shall  enjoy 
it  very  much  when  he  does  hear  you  —  I  take  it 
these  seizures  are  frequent?  " 

"  Seizures !  "  I  echoed.  "  It  is  a  calm  and  stable 
mental  condition." 

"  You  make  me  think  of  —  "  he  began,  broke  off, 
and  then  inquired,  "  do  they  have  such  things  as 
Bibles  out  in  West  Texas?  " 

I  nodded. 

"  Well,  a  certain  ancient  writer  named  Isaiah  de- 
scribes you  pretty  well.  How  does  it  go?  '  Behold 
thou  shalt  call  a  nation  thou  knowest  not,  and 
nations  that  knew  thee  not  shall  run  unto  thee.'  Is 
that  it?" 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  I  acquiesced;  "  but  David's  way 
of  putting  it  hits  my  particular  fancy :  '  A  people 
whom  I  have  not  known  shall  serve  me.'  (Serve 
me,  mind!)  'As  soon  as  they  hear  of  me  they 
shall  obey  me.  The  strangers  shall  submit  them- 
selves to  me.' ' 

"  I  see,"  agreed  my  editor  once  more,  but  with 
wavering  firmness.  "  And  now  that  you've  got 
the  town,  how  does  it  please  you  ?  " 

"  It  likes  me  well  and  always,"  I  replied.  "  Even 
when  I  come  up  through  the  swarming  East 
Side,  I  do  not  despair.  I  am  only  moved  to  deep 
pity  by  the  squalor  and  discomfort  in  which  the 
people  live,  by  the  sight  of  wretched,  slovenly 


4O         «$»          The  Last  Word  «$» 

women,  and  most  of  all  the  herds  of  little  dirty, 
unchildish  children.  I  then  and  there  lay  it  upon  my- 
self to  remember  these  my  poor  subjects,  and  more, 
if  need  be,  to  absent  myself  from  felicity  for  awhile, 
that  I  may  devise  means  to  mend  their  cruel  con- 
ditions." 

"  Yes,"  mused  Mr.  DeWitt,  "  our  president  is 
the  only  person  in  the  shop  really  fit  to  talk  to  you. 
He's  a  Southern  man,  like  yourself.  He's  got 
exactly  your  own  Alexander-looking-for-more- 
worlds-to-conquer  attitude  of  mind." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  hurried  on.  "  Now,  you  know, 
when  I  walk  up  Broadway  after  a  matinee,  studying 
the  meeting  and  passing  streams  of  beauty,  fashion, 
and  elegance,  I  am  only  delighted  —  nothing  is  fur- 
ther from  my  thoughts  than  a  feeling  of  envious 
isolation.  '  Here  you  are,  my  dear  people/  say  I, 
'  the  flower  of  my  kingdom ;  high-bred,  daintily 
clad,  happy  and  prosperous.  Where  else  will  you 
find  such  fresh  cheeks,  glowing  eyes,  grace  of  bear- 
ing, and  such  beautiful  and  luxurious  attire  ?  After 
all,  it  is  a  happy  people,  and  I  a  favoured  sov- 
ereign ! ' 

"  Right,  I  believe  you !  "  breathed  Mr.  DeWitt, 
faintly  —  he  died  hard,  but  I  had  held  his  head 
under  till  he  could  barely  gasp. 

Notwithstanding  this  one  momentary  triumph,  the 
truth  was  always  big  before  my  mental  vision,  that 
he  was  the  editor,  —  let  all  the  writers  tremble  and 
the  strong  writers  be  afraid. 

So  I  walked  into  the  office  very  quietly,  on  the 
day  following  the  day  which  had  seen  my  first 
batch  of  copy  sent  in,  and  it  was  with  some  hesi- 
tation that  I  approached  to  address  him.  But  he 
made  me  easy  at  once,  calling  out,  heartily, 


«$»    "  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  «$»  41 

"Good  morning"!  Your  stuff's  all  right!  It's 
rattling  good  stuff!  We'll  run  it  next  week." 

When  I  sat  down  beside  his  desk,  he  added,  in 
a  lower  tone,  and  most  kindly,  "  I  give  you  my 
word,  Miss  West,  that  this  copy  of  yours  was  a 
relief  to  my  mind.  The  bringing  of  writers  —  local 
celebrities  —  to  New  York,  has  usually  been,  so 
far  as  my  experience  and  observation  go,  an  unsat- 
isfactory move.  The  writer  transplanted  loses  that 
individuality  and  flavour  which  brought  him  the 
offer ;  then  he  and  his  employer  fall  to  blaming  each 
other  for  something  that  was  not  the  fault  of  either 
party,  but  of  the  mistaken  plan." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  I  agreed,  "  I  thought  of  all  that 
—  it  was  all  in  my  mind  —  but  I  wasn't  afraid  of 
it.  Besides,  if  I  had  nothing  but  a  little  local  colour, 
and  if  going  to  another  place  would  expose  the  false 
pretence  that  I  was  a  writer  at  all,  why,  the  sooner 
I. detected  myself,  the  better." 

"  Well,"  and  he  tapped  the  little  pile  of  copy 
beneath  his  finger-ends,  "  so  far  from  deteriorating, 
you  seem  to  have  received  a  fresh  impulse.  I  like 
the  way  you  have  seen  New  York  with  Texas  eyes; 
it's  piquant." 

I  had  noticed,  as  I  came  in,  sitting  at  a  desk  near 
Mr.  DeWitt's,  but  with  her  back  to  us.  a  young 
woman  with  peculiarly  abundant  and  beautiful  hair, 
of  a  pale  tan  colour,  the  arrangement  of  which  in  a 
huge  Bath-bun  on  the  back  of  her  head  suggested  to 
my  mind  that  she  might  be  an  Englishwoman. 

As  my  editor  made  that  remark  concerning  the 
unsatisfactoriness  and  general  futility  of  bringing 
local  celebrities  to  New  York,  this  young  woman 
started  quite  violently,  turning  upon  me  a  pair  of 


42          «9>          The  Last  Word  «$» 

naive,  English-tan-coloured  eyes,  of  exactly  the 
same  tint  as  the  hair,  in  which  was  a  look  of  mild 
incredulity.  At  the  time,  I  attributed  this  to  my 
failure  to  look  the  part,  and  vainly  sought  in  my 
limited  repertoire  for  a  somewhat  more  celebrated 
expression,  that  I  might  display  it  at  once,  with  a 
view  to  her  enlightenment. 

I  was  endeavouring  to  look  as  celebrated  as  pos- 
sible, when  Mr.  DeWitt,  moved  by  that  irresistible 
impulse  which  prompts  people  to  tell  you  something 
displeasing  they  thought  or  said  of  you  at  first, 
because  it  is  past,  remarked  meditatively : 

"  By  the  way,  Miss  West,  do  you  know  who,  in 
this  office,  was  most  active  in  making  you  the  prop- 
osition that  brought  you  East?  It  wasn't  I.  Much 
as  I  admired  your  work,  I  opposed  the  plan;  and 
I  am  glad  you've  proven  me  wrong." 

"Miss  Salem,  was  it  not?"  I  hazarded;  "that 
was  the  name  signed  to  the  first  letters  I  received." 

"So  it  was!"  agreed  Mr.  DeWitt;  "but  your 
most  extravagant  admirer  —  if  you  will  forgive  the 
qualifying  term  —  the  one  who  had  unlimited  faith 
in  your  future  greatness,  and  your  desirableness  to 
the  Salem  Publishing  Company,  was  our  president." 

"  Mr.  Yardley,"  I  assented.  "  I  read  of  his  death 
just  before  I  left  Texas." 

"  No,  not  Mr.  Yardley.  He  had  been  out  of  health 
for  more  than  a  year  before  his  decease,  and  had 
withdrawn  almost  entirely  from  the  work.  I  mean 
the  gentleman  who  was  acting  president  at  that  time, 
and  who  has  succeeded  to  the  office ;  our  art  mana- 
ger, Mr.  — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Bucks,"  for  she  of  the 
Bath-bun  had  touched  him  on  the  arm,  and  laid  upon 


«f»    u  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  •&  43 

the  desk  beside  him  a  neat  pile  of  copy,  plainly  pre- 
paratory to  departure. 

Miss  Bucks  and  I  were  then  made  acquainted, 
and  as  she  seemed  a  pleasant,  wholesome  girl  — 
she  was  English  —  I  was  glad  to  know  her.  That 
lost,  snowed-under  feeling  which  Mr.  DeWitt  had 
so  cheerfully  urged  upon  me  at  an  earlier  interview, 
had  ached  and  fretted  in  my  heart  all  day.  It  could 
hardly  be  homesickness,  for  though  I  had  as  yet 
made  no  home  here  in  New  York,  I  had  left  none  in 
Texas.  Whatever  it  might  be,  my  defence  against 
this  strange  empty  sensation  was  work  —  much 
work.  And  the  office  was  a  pleasant  place,  with 
clever,  busy  people  about,  and  the  kind  of  work  I 
so  love  going  on  everywhere  before  my  eyes. 

It  was  a  large  publishing  house,  with  many  rami- 
fications, out-branchings,  and  departments.  I  had 
observed,  over  in  the  corner  of  the  main  room, 
when  passing  in  and  out,  a  person  whom  I 
unconsciously  christened  "  the  big  man."  He  sat 
endlessly  at  the  same  drawing-board,  and  now  Miss 
Bucks  informed  me  that  he  made  the  fashion  pic- 
tures, and  that  nobody  in  New  York  had  such  style 
and  chic.  His  board  sat  near  a  big  desk  at  which  he 
sometimes  wrote.  I  regarded  a  man  who  made  fash- 
ion pictures  as  in  no  way  related  to  myself,  or  my 
work ;  and  when  I  occasionally  found  his  mild  blue 
eyes  fastened  on  me  over  the  top  of  his  drawing- 
board,  or  end  of  this  desk,  I  wondered  if  he  were 
making  me  a  study  of  "  How  Not  to  Do  It,"  in  one 
of  the  fashion  articles  he  illustrated. 

I  was  a  little  surprised  when,  one  morning,  some 
time  after  my  meeting  with  Miss  Bucks,  he  got  up 
and  came  across  to  me,  where  I  sat  waiting  on  Mr. 


44         «*»          The  Last  Word  *f» 

DeWitt.  He  was,  indeed,  a  large  man,  more  than 
six  feet  in  height,  with  a  big  square  head,  vast 
shoulders,  and  a  great,  deep,  soft,  rambling  chest. 
The  frame  was  mighty,  and  would  have  been  majes- 
tic had  the  spirit  of  majesty  been  within  it.  He  had 
a  very  fair  face,  full  and  florid,  clear  blue  eyes  with 
quick-expanding  pupils  like  a  child's,  and  a  child's 
fair,  soft  hair.  There  was  a  short,  inadequate  nose, 
and  a  blond  moustache  under  which  an  amiable, 
irresolute  mouth  hesitated  sweetly.  This  was  Bush- 
rod  Floyd,  cousin  of  the  new  president  of  our  com- 
pany; owing,  as  it  was  hinted  to  me,  even  such 
inferior  station  as  he  held  in  the  house  to  this  rela- 
tionship rather  than  his  own  merits. 

When  I  came  to  know  him  well  —  and  that  was 
very  soon  —  I  found  this  giant's  disposition  was 
most  vulnerable,  sensitive,  and  appealingly  appro- 
bative.  He  had  a  body  which  was  a  grand  and  per- 
fect thing,  a  soul  strung  like  a  wind-harp  to  answer 
in  harmony  every  air  of  joy,  of  liking  and  approval, 
to  tremble  and  shiver  at  the  jarring  touch  of  re- 
proach and  pain,  and  to  rave  and  jangle  wildly 
under  the  gusts  of  remorse. 

Such  a  temperament  as  this  exposed  him  —  poor 
soul !  —  a  pathetic  negative,  upon  which  life  was 
to  print  any  picture  she  list.  And  life's  pictures, 
when  asked  for  in  that  way,  are  grim. 

A  man  well  born,  of  many  fine  talents  and 
trained  abilities,  there  was  something  supine  in  his 
spirit. 

The  world's  prizes  go  to  him  who  demands  them, 
declares  himself  worthy  of  them,  and  for  them  risks 
the  ridicule  which  waits  upon  a  failure  to  make 
good  his  challenge.  It  was  evident  that  the  bare 


«$»    "  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  «$»  45 

thought  of  vouching  himself  a  postulant  for  honours 
and  successes  would  have  covered  poor  Bushrod 
Floyd  with  confusion.  He  was  far  too  timid  and 
too  inert  to  put  forth  that  effort  which  claims  the 
best;  the  worst  could  be  depended  upon  to  seek 
him;  and  a  passive  attitude  drugged  his  sense  of 
responsibility. 

I  could  believe  that  his  abraded  sensibilities  would 
make  him  as  chaff  to  the  fire  of  a  soft  word,  an 
ogling  glance ;  but,  these  cheap  bribes  failing  to  pre- 
sent themselves,  I  could  never  imagine  him  bestir- 
ring himself  in  any  degree  to  seek  them. 

What,  then,  would  be  the  specific  expression  of 
such  a  temperament's  defects?  Ah,  you  would 
know  beforehand;  you  would  never  need  be  told. 
Drink  —  yes,  of  course  —  drink. 

A  man  of  such  a  disposition  would  naturally  look 
to  liquor  as  an  armour  for  his  weakness,  a  shield 
for  his  oversensibility.  A  thousand  failures,  a 
thousand  humiliations  which  it  might  work  upon 
him,  would  yet  not  teach  him  the  futility  of  this 
hope. 

When  I  became  more  familiar  at  the  office,  I  was 
told  that  the  only  trouble  with  Bushrod  Floyd  was 
that  he  had  been  known  to  go  on  wild  sprees.  No- 
body seemed  to  appreciate  that  the  lapses  were  pre- 
pared in  those  months  when  he  sat  patiently  at  the 
drawing-board,  and  saw  his  inferiors  pass  him  in 
every  race. 

They  looked  at  the  spree,  at  the  drinking.  They 
said,  "  If  he  only  would  not  do  that."  There  was 
never  one  to  understand  that  these  stumbles  were  not 
causes  of  defeat,  but  only  ultimate  confession  of 
infirmity,  of  incapacity. 


46          «f»          The  Last  Word  «$» 

I  alone,  I  believe,  understood  how,  back  in  his 
timid  soul,  he  was  always  making  half-hearted,  fum- 
bling offers  at  life's  opportunities,  and  (still  in  the 
country  of  his  mind)  being  defeated  and  covered 
with  shame.  I  came  to  realise,  as  clearly  as  though 
he  had  told  it  all  to  me,  that  his  months  of  seeming 
spiritual  sloth  were  full  of  such  half-hearted  at- 
tempts and  their  humiliating  results,  and  to  see  that 
when  these  failures  finally  piled  mountain  high  be- 
fore his  shrinking  eyes,  there  could  be  nothing  for 
it  but  one  last  cataclysmal  failure  in  a  spree. 

A  singular  and  significant  feature  of  the  matter 
was  that  there  should  be  so  much  more  talk  of  Bush- 
rod's  drinking  than  there  appeared  any  fact  to 
warrant. 

For  my  part,  I  saw  and  continued  to  see,  nothing 
of  it  —  there  was  nothing  of  it.  Yet  those  about 
him,  who  certainly  always  liked  him  well,  seemed 
ever  apprehensive  that  he  might  at  any  moment  break 
out  in  a  wild  debauch. 

In  truth,  such  an  outbreak  was  not  continually 
apprehended.  There  was  nothing  to  justify  such 
anticipation.  He  was  just  one  of  those  brilliant, 
gifted,  weak-willed,  perverse,  endearing  creatures 
whose  friends  will  always  be  mistakenly  fearing  for 
them  that  they  cannot  live  their  lives,  as  we  appre- 
hend for  little  children  that  they  cannot  walk 
without  falling. 

He  spoke  to  me  in  a  low,  soft  voice,  which  had  a 
little  haunting  reminder  of  some  one  else.  I  found 
afterward  that,  through  much  difference,  his  tones 
held  a  family  resemblance  to  the  golden  voice  of  my 
neighbour  of  the  train. 

"Would  you  like  to  look  at  these  initials?"  he 


«f»    'c  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  «f»  47 

inquired,  gently,  putting  in  my  hand  a  package  of 
exquisitely  neat  white  cards,  upon  each  of  which 
was  a  design  for  a  letter.  The  drawings  were  su- 
perb ;  a  tiny  figure  of  a  mounted  cowboy  leaping  out 
at  you,  full  gallop,  through  an  O ;  a  swinging  lariat, 
whose  curves  formed  a  random  yet  perfect  N;  a 
tilted  sombrero  and  Mexican  quirt,  thrown  down  in 
an  inquiring  Q;  and  a  C  that  was  a  great,  long- 
rowelled  Mexican  spur. 

"  Oh,  but  these  are  just  what  I  like,"  I  cried. 
"Who  drew  them?" 

"  I,"  he  answered,  smilingly.  "  I  am  glad  they 
please  you.  They  are  for  Hexter's  new  cattle-coun- 
try book,  '  Spur  and  Lariat.' ' 

"Have  you  more  drawings  for  it?"  I  asked, 
eagerly;  "  I  love  to  look  at  Western  things."  And 
I  followed  him  back  to  his  desk,  where  he  placed 
for  me  a  chair  and  drew  out  numberless  dainty 
initials,  head-  and  tail-pieces  and  enrichments.  All 
showed  the  same  fine  drawing,  the  same  perfect 
finish ;  but  none  of  them,  as  I  would  then  have  said 
in  my  ignorance,  amounted  to  much  as  art. 

"  Rouse  is  to  do  the  illustrations  for  the  Western 
book,"  he  explained.  "  I  haven't  got  beyond  my 
letters  yet." 

I  laughed  appreciatively.  The  speech  sounded 
quaint  from  him  then;  and  later,  when  I  came 
to  know  all  the  details  I  have  already  mentioned,  it 
had  a  pathetic  significance. 

Now,  I  caught  up  and  laughed  over  a  thumb-nail 
sketch  of  a  cowboy  on  a  bucking  pony, 

"  Good,  isn't  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  DeWitt,  behind  my 
shoulder.  "  It  reminds  me  of  '  The  Broncho  Buster 
and  the  Esoteric  Philosopher/  in  your  last  week's 


48          «^          The  Last  Word  «f» 

story.  I  like  your  turn  in  there;  it's  an  original  and 
piquant  conceit." 

"  There's  no  original  conceit  about  it !  "  I  de- 
murred. "  A  broncho  buster  —  one  worthy  the 
name  —  is  necessarily  an  esoteric  philosopher ;  and 
conversely,  any  esoteric  philosopher  —  of  whatever 
age,  sex,  or  condition  —  could,  if  he  list,  be  a  suc- 
cessful broncho  buster." 

The  blue  eyes  fairly  patted  me  on  the  head. 
"  Stand  right  up  to  him !  "  they  said.  And  the 
editor  remarked,  "  Well,  I  shouldn't  have  allowed 
myself  to  be  drawn  into  any  talk  on  broncho  bust- 
ing. It's  a  thing  you  plainly  know  more  about, 
abstractly  and  experimentally,  than  I  do.  I  have 
as  little  knowledge  of  Texas  ponies  and  the  cattle 
business  as  you  have  of  the  New  York  streets." 

"  I've  had  some  very  vivid  experiences  on  them," 
I  said,  reminiscently ;  "  they  are  rich  in  copy." 

"  Yes,  you  ought  to  find  good  stuff  that  way.  I 
know.  I  came  here  fresh  once  myself.  I  am  glad  I 
sent  you  out  free-lance,  no  assignment  and  no  rou- 
tine. I  don't  see  how  you  can  go  about  in  that  tri- 
umphant, choral,  halleluiah  spirit,  with  that  patent, 
life-preserving  Texas  trust  and  enthusiasm  of  yours, 
without  meeting  experiences." 

"  I  can't,"  I  agreed,  heartily.  "  I  suppose  I 
walked  and  rode  several  hundred  miles  the  other 
day,  only  to  gaze  at  street  signs.  The  mighty  are 
indeed  fallen.  Cervantes  is  in  a  small  shop  —  cigars, 
I  think.  Raphael  is  in  the  fruit  line;  Goethe  is 
running  a  bakery;  and  on  another  street,  Walter 
Scott,  the  Wizard  of  the  North  —  the  divine  Sir 
Walter  —  is  clouting  breeks  for  the  unwashed  mul- 
titude. His  sign  reads,  '  Suits  Neatly  Cleaned  and 
Repaired.' " 


«$»    "  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  «f»  49 

"I  know  some  people" —  put  in  Miss  Bucks, 
with  mean  caution,  from  the  desk  where  she  seemed 
to  be  looking  for  something  — "  who  would  not 
mind  in  the  least  if  he  had  been  trained  to  that  in 
his  youth,  and  continued  all  his  life  in  the  business." 
Then  she  went  away  before  I  could  even  get  her 
range  and  distance. 

"  You  find  Solomon  in  the  pawnshops,  sans  the 
glory  ?  "  from  Mr.  DeWitt. 

"  Yes,  and  now  I  am  looking  in  all  the  butcher- 
shops  and  green  groceries  for  Michael  Angelo.  He's 
here  somewhere,  and  when  I  find  him  I  shall  shed  a 
few  preluding  tears,  and  say,  '  Shake,  Mike ;  I'm 
just  as  proud  to  know  you  now  as  I  should  have  been 
in  the  days  when  you  sculped  and  painted  and  archi- 
tected  and  wrote  heavenly  sonnets  to  Vittoria  Co- 
lonna.  "  Lord,  we  know  what  we  are,  but  we  know 
not  what  we  may  be !  " 

"I  call  that  noble,"  declared  Mr.  DeWitt. 

''  Yes,  I  realise  that  it  is.  But  you  see  nobody 
knows  better  than  I  do  that  this  catering  to  the 
amusement  of  a  fickle  and  fractious  public  which 
is  my  trade  —  and  Michael's,  too,  in  part,  at  least 
—  is  kittle  work  —  kittle  work  —  as  these  signs 
have  signified  to  me.  And  I  dare  not  be  arrogant, 
who  have  no  assurance  that  I  may  not  some  day 
have  to  make  sausages  and  head-cheeses  myself." 

'  There's  one  thing  certain,"  announced  my  edi- 
tor, suddenly ;  "  you  want  to  keep  that  sunny  trust- 
fulness of  yours  —  that  tackling  of  life  in  general 
for  a  joke  —  as  a  sort  of  professional  property.  I 
see  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  fish  for  copy  with;  but  it 
won't  do  for  common,  every-day  consumption  - 
it  isn't  safe.  You'll  fall  upon  people  and  happenings 


50         *g>          The  Last  Word  «$> 

more  wild  and  irregular  than  amusing  or  profitable. 
You're  liable  to  be  buncoed !  " 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so?  "  I  cried.  "  I've  longed 
ever  since  I  got  here  to  have  a  bunco-steerer  or  a 
confidence  man.  I  should  suppose  it  ought  to  be 
one  of  the  earliest  experiences  of  the  greenhorn  in 
Gotham.  I've  been  at  heaven  upon  my  knees  morn- 
ing and  evening  to  send  me  one ;  and  I've  tried  with 
patience  and  intelligence  to  induce  one." 

"How?" 

"  Well  —  I  don't  think  you  need  to  look  so  insult- 
ingly amused.  Of  course  I  can't  wear  a  big  soft  hat, 
and  Texas-y  boots,  and  look  wild  and  woolly  as  a 
man  could;  but  I've  done  my  poor  best,  with  a 
guileless  and  confiding  expression,  and  was  always 
in  hopes." 

"  Now,  really,"  he  objected,  dropping  his  voice 
to  a  pitch  of  grave  remonstrance,  "  you  are  a  little 
too  —  too  —  well,  I  advise  you  not,  that's  all." 

Looking  up,  as  Mr.  DeWitt  went  back  to  his 
desk,  I  found  Bushrod  Floyd's  eyes  fixed  smil- 
ingly on  me,  while  something  very  like  a  faint  wink 
accompanied  the  comprehending  look  with  which 
he  asked,  "  Did  you  like  him  after  you  got  him  ? 
How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  never  really  got  him ;  it  was  along  of 
my  being  so  homesick,"  I  explained;  then  suddenly, 
"  I  imagine  homesickness  might  be  a  really  fatal 
complaint  —  when  a  body  has  no  home." 

He  nodded.     "  Me  too,"  he  agreed,  largely. 

"  It  isn't  just  New  York,  you  know,"  I  went  on. 
"  I  have  no  home  anywhere." 

Back  in  Texas  I  had  left  some  friends,  one  very 
distant  relative,  and  a  little  group  of  graves  in  an 


«f»    "  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  «$»  51 

old  family  burying-ground.  The  graves  were 
made  so  long  ago  that  I  could  only  call  up  faint 
childish  memories  of  the  days  upon  which  they 
were  digged.  My  father's  was  newest  among  them, 
and  I  could  recollect  standing,  a  child  of  ten,  in  my 
little  black  frock  which  didn't  fit  me  and  smelled  so 
oddly,  to  see  that  grave  filled  in.  These  and  the 
memories,  however,  are  scarcely  things  to  be  home- 
sick for,  and  I  could  not  have  told  you  —  no,  not 
I  —  in  what  direction  my  craving  heart  reached. 

"  Same  here,"  agreed  Mr.  Floyd.  "  I  haven't 
had  a  home  since  I  was  a  baby  —  a  home  that  was 
mine.  You've  met  our  president  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  We  are  cousins.  He  is  my  Aunt  Virginia's 
son,  two  years  younger  than  I,  a  very  young  man 
to  have  reached  the  position  he  occupies.  He's  a 
wonderful,  unusual  combination  of  artist  and  busi- 
ness man." 

I  was  beginning  to  hate  this  paragon  of  presi- 
dents. "  But  about  yourself,"  I  prompted.  "  Were 
you  going  to  tell  me  something?" 

"  Yes,  I  was,"  he  responded.  "  I  see  everybody 
does.  Your  sweet  receptive  kindness  melts  every- 
body's reserve.  They  hasten  to  hand  over  their 
griefs  to  your  keeping.  Well,  I  began  being  an 
orphan  very  young. 

"  It  was  a  boy  and  girl  love  —  that  of  my  young 
parents.  They  were  to  have  waited  for  years;  but 
when  the  darkest  period  of  the  war  came,  and  the 
poor,  bleeding,  desperate  South  was  calling  for  the 
last  drop  of  gallant  blood,  they  were  married,  a  few 
weeks  before  my  father  rode  away  on  General  Lee's 
staff  —  a  boy  of  twenty. 

"  My  poor  little  mother  never  saw  him  again. 


52          <9>          The  Last  Word  «$» 

He  was  killed  at  Gettysburg,  before  I  was  born; 
and  she  followed  him  when  I  was  less  than  a  year 
old.  My  aunt  brought  me  up;  and  there's  no 
dearer,  lovelier  woman  living  than  Aunt  Virginia. 
She  was  said  to  be  like  a  mother  to  me,  and  my 
cousins  like  brothers  and  sisters.  I  don't  doubt  it 
was  so.  The  fault  was  in  me,  I'm  sure,  that  I 
always  felt  alone  —  yes,  and  homeless." 

"  So  we  are  alike  in  that,"  I  said. 

"  No,"  he  demurred,  with  a  little  smile,  "  I  claim 
a  sort  of  precedence  in  desolation.  The  graves  in 
my  life  were  made  so  long  before  I  came  to  know 
myself  or  others  —  to  be  a  thinking  creature  —  that 
I  scarce  know  where  they  are.  The  people  I  have 
lost  —  my  real  dead  —  live  right  here  in  the  world 
where  I  live,  fasting,  feasting,  watching,  labouring, 
marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,  and  taking  no 
thought  of  me.  They  used  to  look  at  me  across 
the  table  three  times  a  day,  and  the  play  was  that 
they  were  my  kin.  And  that's  the  deadest  kind  of 
dead  —  you  dare  not  ever  be  homesick  for  them !  " 

My  woes  were  not  exactly  of  this  foliage  —  I 
wore  my  rue  with  a  difference.  In  point  of  fact,  - 
and  to  be  brutally  frank  about  myself,  —  the  main 
tragedy  of  my  life  just  then  was  that  I  had  neither 
seen  nor  heard  from  my  neighbour  of  the  train. 
I  was  beginning  to  realise,  too,  that  I  had  believed 
implicitly  his  parting  words  —  that  we  were  to  meet 
again.  But  now  in  my  bitterness  I  told  myself  that 
he  was  a  shallow  creature  who  got  up  a  train  flir- 
tation as  he  tipped  the  porter,  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  a  natural  part  of  any  journey.  "  He 
did  not,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  so  much  as  live  in  New 
York  at  all."  But,  even  if  that  were  true,  he  might 
have  written  me. 


«$»    "  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  «f»  53 

"  It  wasn't  so  much  homesickness,"  I  finally  ad- 
mitted. "  It  was  about  —  about  —  a  letter,  a  letter 
which  might  have  been  written  just  as  easily  as  not, 
and  which  would  have  forestalled  and  prevented 
this  painful  condition  in  my  ego." 

"  A  letter,"  mused  the  big  man,  in  a  gentle  under- 
tone. "  I  write  mighty  good  letters.  If  I'd  known 
anybody  of  your  name  needed  a  letter,  why  I'd  have 
written  you  one  myself." 

"  Well,  I  needed  it  —  oh,  I  needed  it.  I  con- 
sidered yesterday  what  manner  of  sudden  death  I 
could  adopt  (in  case  I  got  no  letter)  to  provide 
undying  remorse  for  those  neglectful  people,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  furnish  the  greatest  amount  of 
material  for  enterprising  young  reporters;  and  I 
said,  '  The  bridge  has  it ! '  " 

"  You're  fine  and  bold,"  murmured  my  hearer. 
"  A  modest  cup  of  pizen  would  always  satisfy  me, 
at  my  wildest.  Did  you  —  " 

"  I  came  over  here  and  found  no  letter.  Then 
I  started  toward  Brooklyn  bridge,  in  what  I  main- 
tain was  a  thoroughly  suicidal  frame  of  mind. 
Fixed,  stony,  desperate  —  I  do  assure  you  those 
terms  are  feeble." 

He  nodded  gravely.  "  Been  there,"  he  said, 
"  know  how  it  feels.  I  wish  I'd  written  you  that 
letter!" 

"  Well,"  I  continued,  "  I  came,  in  the  utmost  pos- 
sible gloom  of  soul,  to  the  first  short  flight  of  steps. 
There  —  little  thinking  what  boon  fate  had  in  store 
for  me  —  I  glanced  darkly  up  where,  lo,  he  stood, 
my  beautiful  and  long-desired  bunco-steerer,  my  con- 
fidence man  in  the  flesh,  just  as  I  had  read  him 
described  thousands  of  times." 


54         «f»          The  Last  Word  «f» 

'*'  How  seasonable !  "  laughed  Mr.  Floyd.  "  Al- 
most too  good  to  believe." 

"  Yes,  wasn't  it?  I  thought  so,  too.  The  transi- 
tion from  despair  to  joy  was  so  great  that  I  didn't 
credit  the  evidence  of  my  senses.  '  This  is  a  fig- 
ment/ I  said,  '  there's  no  such  good  luck ;  they  are 
not  to  be  found  on  the  bridge.  It  is  the  mince  pie 
our  Presbyterian  friends  had  for  dinner'  (I  dined 
out  most  sadly  the  evening  before)." 

"  And  it  was  a  figment?    That's  the  joke?  " 

"  No,  no  —  listen ;  I  gazed  at  him  guilelessly. 
The  man  returned  my  look,  but  in  altogether  the 
wrong  manner;  for  though  he  must  have  thought 
I  had  a  cataleptic  attack,  he  only  smiled  civilly, 
and  considerately  glanced  out  toward  the  shipping. 
I  went  up  the  steps  automatically,  with  my  he-ad 
turning  gradually  on  my  shoulders,  like  one  of  those 
little  brown  owls  that  sit  up  at  the  mouth  of  prairie- 
dog  holes.  In  my  childhood  I  solemnly  believed  that 
if  you  continued  to  walk  around  those  owls  they 
would  continue  turning  their  heads  to  follow  you 
with  their  eyes,  until  they  wrung  their  little  necks 
in  two." 

"  So  did  I  —  so  did  I !  "  cried  my  companion. 
"  I  always  believed  a  squinch-owl  would  do  that !  " 
And  we  laughed  together  with  the  subdued  joy  of 
expatriates  in  a  strange  land,  discussing  and  doting 
upon  important  characteristics  of  the  home  country. 

"  But  this  ma'n  was  only  responsive  enough,"  I 
went  on,  "  not  to  seem  really  unkind  and  obdurate. 
He  still  apparently  gave  me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt, 
and  assumed  that  I  was  mistaken." 

"  Such  coyness  was  unpromising,  discouraging 
—  and  inexplicable." 


«f»    "  We  Are  Come  to  Our  Kingdom  "  «$»  55 

"  Yes,  it  was  all  of  that,  and  my  spirits  began  to 
sink  toward  their  former  low  stage.  *  It  was  the 
mince  pie,'  I  kept  on  saying  to  myself,  though  my 
heart  stood  still  at  every  footstep  behind  me. .  '  It 
was  those  insoluble  foreordination,  predestination, 
sanctification,  and  adoption  cakes  with  the  Calvin- 
istic  icing  onto  them ;  only  them  and  nothing  more. 
Heavens,  aren't  they  enough  ?  ' 

"  Plenty,  I  should  think,"  with  a  smile.  "  No 
wonder  your  heart  balked." 

"I  went  on,  but  deeply  discouraged;  and  the 
effort  to  keep  my  features  in  front  of  me,  in  spite 
of  the  prodigious,  vast  and  overwhelming  rotary 
impulse  in  the  back  of  my  head,  distracted  my 
attention  so  that  I  had  walked  more  than  half-way 
across  the  bridge  before  I  noticed  the  absence  of 
any  provisions  for  jumping  off.  I'd  never  observed 
that  the  footway  is  inconsiderately  placed  right  in 
the  middle  of  the  structure." 

'  That's  the  good  reason  for  having  it  fixed  that 
way,  my  child.  Otherwise  a  lot  of  us  would  be 
jumping  off  there  every  day,"  explained  the  big 
man,  with  a  glance  of  the  blue  eyes  that  did  not 
match  the  jesting  tone. 

"  Well,  if  so,"  I  conceded,  "  it  served  its  purpose 
with  me,  and  thwarted  my  —  " 

"  I'm  ready  for  you  now,  Miss  West,"  Mr.  De- 
Witt's  voice  broke  in  upon  us,  and  this  was  the 
first  of  many  fragmentary  talks  with  the  big  man. 
half  jesting,  half  confiding,  and  altogether  enjoy- 
able. They  always  wore  the  face  of  chance;  they 
appeared  wholly  incidental  and  fortuitous,  and  gen- 
erally filled  in  what  would  have  been  my  idle  inter- 
vals in  the  office. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A   Superfluous   Introduction 

"  They  hunt  our  steps,  that  we  cannot  go  in  our  streets." 

GOING  up  to  the  office  upon  a  certain  Thursday, 
to  take  my  copy,  I  encountered  Bushrod  Floyd. 

We  both  began  in  one  breath  to  say  that  Mr. 
DeWitt  desired  me  to  look  at  certain  drawings  that 
Mr.  Floyd  was  making  for  some  humourous  West- 
ern verse;  both  laughed,  and  then  he  conducted 
me  to  his  desk,  took  the  pictures  from  one  of  its 
little-used  drawers,  and,  having  placed  them  before 
me  where  I  sat  in  the  seldom  occupied  desk  chair, 
stood  a  little  apart  beside  his  drawing-board. 

When  I  had  examined,  commented,  criticised,  and 
offered  suggestions  —  as  I  had  been  asked  to  do, 
for  these  were  rough,  tentative  sketches  —  I  sat  idly 
on,  and  presently  poked  a  little  deeper  into  the  pile 
of  sketches  lying  in  the  drawer  —  an  indefensible 
thing  to  do.  I  realised  this  when,  turning  suddenly 
with  a  card  in  my  hand,  I  found  the  owner  and 
author's  apprehensive  eyes  fixed  upon  me  with  the 
look  of  a  child  who  expects  a  reproof.  Glancing 
back  to  the  card  I  held,  I  found  it  bore  the  sketch 
of  a  hand. 

"  Why  —  why  —  It  is  mine!  "  I  exclaimed,  rec- 
ognising a  ring. 

56 


<9»       A  Superfluous  Introduction      «$»     57 

"  It's  sure  your  dexter  fist,"  confirmed  the  artist, 
though  still  rather  uncertainly. 

"  But  it  —  it's  good ! "  I  went  on,  stupidly,  as 
though  that  were  matter  for  surprise.  Then  with 
delight,  as  I  looked  closer,  "  You've  got  my 
crooked  little  finger,  exactly.  Father  had  just  such 
a  one;  he  used  to  say  it  was  a  family  finger." 

"  Crooked !  "  echoed  my  hearer.  "  It's  curved  a 
bit  —  just  enough  to  be  charming  and  characteristic. 
But  the  others  —  they  are  as  straight  and  slim  and 
deadly  as  little  arrows."  And  he  seemed  relieved 
that  I  had  not  been  offended. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  wonderful  sort  of  thing,"  I  added, 
looking  long  at  the  bit  of  work.  "  I  declare,  it 
tells  more,  somehow,  of  the  personality  than  many 
a  portrait  I  have  seen." 

'  You  do  me  proud!  "  smiled  the  artist. 

The  hand  paused  relaxed  upon  a  barely  indicated 
sheet  of  paper,  a  pencil  lying  lightly  in  the  fingers. 
"  If  my  hand  really  looks  as  clever  and  intelligent 
and  —  and  —  " 

"  Exquisitely  lovely,"  proffered  Mr.  Floyd,  in  an 
undertone. 

"  Nonsense !  If  it  looks  as  —  you  know  what  I 
mean  —  as  know  how  as  that,  I  shall  believe  in  it, 
and  in  myself." 

"  Well,  it  looks  as  much  more  and  lovelier  and 
cleverer  than  that,  as  —  " 

'''  You  seek  to  make  me  vain  and  conceited,  so  that 
the  entire  force  may  have  joy  in  the  falling  foul  of 
me  by  Mr.  DeWitt,"  I  interrupted.  And  then,  with 
no  warning  catch,  the  clock  of  destiny  struck  another 
hour  in  my  life. 

Turning  to  seek  the  editorial  autocrat,  and  deliver 


58          «$>          The  Last  Word  <&> 

my  copy,  I  saw  entering  the  door  at  the  big  room's 
further  end,  the  individual  whom,  in  the  privacy  of 
my  thoughts,  I  had  been  calling  Frank,  the  person 
about  whom  I  had  been  most  persistently  concerned, 
of  whom  I  had  said  as  I  lay  down  to  sleep,  "  He 
surely  cared,  and  I  shall  see  him  again,"  and  as  I 
rose  up,  "  Go  to !  it  was  a  train  flirtation ;  he  was 
a  drummer;  he  does  not  live  in  New  York;  and 
worst  and  most  woful  of  all,  I  shall  never  see  him 
more ! " 

And  here  he  came,  down  past  the  long  line  of 
desks ;  the  same  gait  which  I  had  called  a  belligerent 
roll,  the  same  deep,  brown,  violet,  gray  eyes,  and 
young,  fresh-coloured  countenance,  half  scornful, 
half  indifferent,  wholly  fascinating. 

I  must  have  been  sub-consciously  expecting  some- 
thing like  this,  for  what  I  felt  was  more  sheer  panic 
than  surprise.  Indeed,  I  mainly  longed  for  present 
escape  —  a  desire  shared,  I  thought,  by  the  other 
party  to  the  encounter  —  yet,  if  this  were  so,  why 
had  he  come  ? 

It  was  not  till  afterward  that  I  formulated  his 
offence  against  mere  kindness.  He  knew  who  and 
where  I  was,  how  to  find  or  reach  me.  He  could 
have  written,  sent  a  message,  called  upon  me  in  my 
home  —  yet  he  had  chosen  to  let  brute  chance  rule 
our  meeting. 

I  advanced  hesitatingly  toward  him;  all  this  lay 
obscure  and  unexpressed,  yet  aching  in  my  heart. 
But  before  we  were  near  enough  for  a  greeting  to 
be  required  (which  would  publish  to  all  beholders 
our  previous  acquaintance)  a  tall  man  with  a  head 
curled  all  over  by  close-rolling  curls  —  a  striking 
peculiarity  in  this  day  of  short-cropped  hair,  rose 


«$»       A  Superfluous  Introduction      «9»     59 

up  from  a  distant  desk  and  approached  us.  He 
noted  and  had  pity  upon  my  trepidation,  and  I  must 
have  seemed  pitiable  indeed.  Smiling  at  me  with 
sunny  eyes  (and,  it  seemed  to  me,  the  whole  outfit 
of  curls)  "  The  editor  is  away,"  he  explained;  "  but 
he  charged  me  to  receive  any  copy  you  might  bring 
in.  I  am  Mr.  Corcoran,  the  cashier." 

Strangely,  in  that  strenuous  moment,  all  the  de- 
tails of  this  new  man's  appearance  and  manner  were 
taken  account  of  by  my  tense  faculties.  He  had  an 
air  of  lovable  benevolence,  infinitely  becoming  to 
him,  and  an  interesting  contrast  to  my  editor's  man- 
ner of  friendly  satire. 

Now,  giving  me  a  glance,  as  who  should  put  a 
kindly  arm  about  a  timid,  overawed  child,  he  turned 
and  presented  me. 

"  Mr.  Randolph,  this  is  Miss  Carrington  West, 
our  Texas  girl.  We  were  expecting  her  when  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  the  newcomer  interrupted, 
pleasantly,  offering  his  hand. 

I  took  it.  "  Mr.  Randolph  is  our  president  and 
art  manager,  Miss  West.  You  are  acquainted  with 
his  work,  of  course,  Francis  Garnett  Randolph." 
And  then  I  knew  why  the  name  had  seemed  familiar 
to  me,  and  why  my  almost  consternation  was  ac- 
counted quite  natural  in  the  office,  where  the  young 
president  was  held  in  great  awe. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  observe  calmly  (calmly!) 
that  I  knew  Mr.  Randolph ;  my  second  —  spurred 
by  the  unruffled  demeanour  with  which  he  accepted 
the  introduction  —  was  to  meet  him,  in  every  sense, 
on  his  own  ground. 

In  spite  of  his  urbane,  new-acquaintance  manner, 
my  late  neighbour  of  the  train  lingered;  and  he 


6o         «$>          The  Last  Word  •& 

was  pleased  to  give  an  endorsement  to  the  trend 
of  our  conversation  when  Mr.  Corcoran  said,  smil- 
ingly, after  we  had  talked  a  few  moments: 

"  We  have  been  rather  looking  forward  to  your 
coming,  you  know,  Miss  West.  We  understand  that 
you  are  a  stranger  here,  new  to  the  East.  Shall 
you  mind  if  I  ask  how  you  are  situated  domesti- 
cally, and  if  you  have  any  women  friends  ?  " 

Before  I  could  answer,  Frank  —  or  perhaps  I  err, 
perhaps  I  should  say  that  it  was  Francis  Garnett 
Randolph  who  spoke  —  remarked,  sympathetically : 
"  New  York  is  hard  enough  on  a  man  —  when  he 
comes  to  it  for  the  first  time,  and  without  friends 
or  acquaintances  —  but  for  a  lady  "  (how  oddly  the 
word  chimed  on  my  ear,  who  had  not  heard  it  used 
generically  since  I  left  Texas)  "  for  a  lady  it  is 
simply  too  bad." 

I  hastened  to  tell  the  tall  man  that  I  was  for  the 
present  domesticated  in  Brooklyn,  where,  through 
no  fault  of  mine,  and  indeed  without  my  knowledge 
or  consent,  a  boarding-place  had  been  procured  for 
me,  with  the  idea,  I  suspected,  of  allowing  me  to 
begin  by  taking  New  York  gradually  and  in  broken 
doses.  I  had,  I  said,  a  number  of  letters  to  people 
whom  it  had  been  supposed  by  mutual  friends  I 
should  be  pleased  and  benefited  by  knowing;  and 
who,  upon  their  part,  would  doubtless  be  cheered 
and  diverted  by  knowing  me.  But  they  were  all,  I 
understood,  persons  who  never  did  anything  but 
amuse  themselves,  and  I  had  refrained  from  pre- 
senting any  of  the  letters,  thinking  that  if  I  desired 
to  work,  such  acquaintances  would  be  the  reverse 
of  helpful  to  me. 

"  You're   right,  —  you   are   surprisingly  right," 


«$>       A  Superfluous  Introduction      «$»     61 

returned  he  of  the  smile  and  curls,  heartily.  "  Yet," 
hesitating,  "  I  believe  that  you  would  like  my  wife, 
and  she  you.  She  was  a  New  Orleans  girl.  Sup- 
pose you  come  up  to  dinner  next  Saturday  —  it  is 
my  day  off  —  and  see  ?  We  wouldn't  interfere  with 
your  work,  you  know,  being,  as  it  were,  of  the  hoi 
polloi  ourselves." 

The  "  New  Orleans  girl  "  warmed  my  heart  —  my 
hurt  heart.  Mr.  Randolph's  endorsement  of  the  idea 
was  so  warm  as  to  suggest  that  he  felt  I  needed 
respectable  friends  and  associates  —  or  so  I  told  my- 
self bitterly.  Yet,  in  spite  of  my  resentment,  I  did 
so  yearn  for  consolation  in  my  loneliness  that  I  was 
fain  to  follow  his  earnest  adjurations  and  say :  "  I 
shall  be  very  glad  indeed  to  do  so." 

Thereupon  Mr.  Corcoran  made  me  out  a  careful 
itinerary  of  the  entire  journey  from  my  boarding- 
place  in  Green  Avenue,  Brooklyn,  to  their  flat  in 
Seventy-fourth  Street. 

The  items  upon  this  itinerary  were  many  and  (to 
me)  fascinating.  When  Saturday  came  I  swept 
my  mind  of  all  remembrance  of  Frank,  I  even  laid 
an  embargo  upon  all  thoughts  of  that  distinguished 
person,  Francis  Garnett  Randolph,  and  set  out  with 
a  fairly  light  heart. 

It  was  the  itinerary  that  ruined  me;  yea,  it  was 
that  well-meant  but  fatal  document  that  procured  my 
subsequent  discomfiture.  Had  I  known  no  more 
than  that  these  nice  people  lived  at  124  West  Sev- 
enty-fourth Street,  and  had  gone,  as  usual,  on  my 
devious  and  erratic  way,  all  would  have  been  well. 
I  should  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  city,  enjoyed 
a  large  amount  of  outdoor  air  and  wholesome  exer- 
cise, and  finally  arrived  at  my  friend's  house  none 


62          «£»          The  Last  Word  «$» 

the  worse  for  a  somewhat  roundabout  method  of 
getting  there. 

I  took,  as  directed,  the  Ninth  Avenue  elevated 
—  it  was  a  good,  free  mover,  well  gaited,  and  held 
out  well.  I  dismounted,  again  by  direction,  at  Sev- 
enty-second Street,  leaving  it  securely  staked  (this 
was  my  own  idea). 

I  was  fascinated  by  those  directions.  I  read  them 
all  the  way  from  Brooklyn  to  Seventy-fourth  Street. 
If  I  put  them  away,  I  instantly  forgot  whether  it 
was  two  blocks  north  or  three,  one  block  west  or 
two,  and  had  to  get  them  out  again. 

To  be  brief  upon  a  not  altogether  pleasant  sub- 
ject, all  this  walking  about  the  New  York  streets, 
reading  fitfully  from  a  paper  and  gazing  at  build- 
ings, culminated  in  something  which  must  have 
looked  to  the  Corcorans  (when,  like  Sister  Anne, 
they  looked  forth  from  their  casement  high)  like  a 
street  brawl,  or  at  least  like  a  very  animated  street 
drama,  in  which  their  intending  guest  was  playing 
the  star  part. 

From  this  embarrassing  situation  Mr.  Corcoran 
sallied  forth  and  rescued  me.  Inside  the  door,  that 
is  to  say  as  we  gained  the  wings,  he  asked  me  in 
some  amazement  how  it  happened.  I  told.  He 
leaned  up  against  the  steam  radiator  and  laughed 
and  wept  and  groaned,  stopping  occasionally  to 
shake  his  curls  and  wipe  his  eyes  at  me. 

While  he  was  still  at  this,  a  lady  came  down  and 
wanted  to  know  also.  I  told  her.  She  sat  down 
on  the  lower  step  and  carried  on  like  a  foolish 
person. 

I  alone  stood  by,  quiet  and  dignified. 

When  they  had  recovered  themselves  a  little,  we 


«$»       A  Superfluous  Introduction      ^»     63 

went  up-stairs,  and  later  we  had  dinner.  My  hostess 
was  so  very  beautiful  —  even  for  a  New  Orleans 
girl  —  that  I  blindly  deemed  it  scarcely  possible 
she  should  have,  also,  goodness  and  sense.  But 
it  was  demonstrated  to  me,  in  later  days,  that  she 
had  as  generous  a  dole  of  each  as  the  very  ugliest 
woman  I  ever  knew. 

Beside  her  at  the  dinner-table,  magnificent  in  com- 
pany bib  and  tucker,  throned  aloft  in  a  high  chair, 
sat  the  sovereign  Teddy,  dispensing  royal  favour 
with  a  nod  of  his  frizzly  gold  head.  I  am  apt, 
through  lack  of  experience,  to  be  a  trifle  shy  of 
babies,  but  Teddy  had  an  urbanity  of  manner  all 
his  own,  which  put  me  immediately  at  my  ease  with 
him. 

We  were  at  the  table  when  Mr.  Corcoran  finally 
understood  that  his  directions  had  caused  my  recent 
embarrassment.  "  Oh,  was  that  what  you  were 
reading  from  ?  "  he  asked,  most  unnecessarily. 

"  It  certainly  was,"  I  returned,  dryly. 

"  And  how  did  you  get  on  with  them  ?  Were 
they  useful  —  otherwise  than  in  attracting  the  atten- 
tion of  the  guardians  of  the  peace?  "  he  pursued. 

"  I  found  them  more  than  good  and  useful,"  I 
answered,  "  they  were  beautiful.  But  I  improved 
upon  them  in  places.  'Take  Ninth  Avenue  ele- 
vated,' they  said,  and  I  did  so.  When  I  found  it  a 
free  mover  and  well  gaited,  I  thought  best  to  stake 
it  securely,  where  I  left  it,  so  that  it  might  graze 
till  I  get  back  —  you'd  never  have  thought  of  put- 
ting anything  like  that  in  your  directions  —  com- 
plete and  enthralling  as  they  were,"  I  concluded, 
triumphantly. 

"I  —  but  you  mustn't  —  you  can't  —  they  won't 


64          *f»          The  Last  Word  «9» 

let  you  —  "  protested  the  young  sister  of  the  house, 
distressfully. 

The  laughter  over  my  sally  and  its  too  literal 
acceptance  having  quieted  down,  compunction  came 
upon  my  lovely  hostess,  and  she  offered  me  a  little 
delicate  sympathy  with  my  salad,  stating  that  she 
herself  used  always  to  get  lost  when  she  first  came 
to  New  York. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  I  hastened  to  reply.  "  You 
are  very  kind  to  say  that.  However,  it  is  all  grist 
that  comes  to  my  mill.  I  used  to  try  my  little  best 
to  avoid  trouble  and  live  a  quiet  and  peaceable  life. 
But  no  longer  —  oh,  not  now !  If  I  lose  my  pocket- 
book,  my  way,  and  my  head  (and  I  do)  ;  if  I  am 
even  smashed  up  in  an  accident,  and  find  myself 
mangled  and  bleeding,  do  I  complain?" 

"  Of  course  you  do  —  "  began  Mr.  Corcoran. 

"  Indeed  I  do  not !  "  I  interrupted.  "  The  only 
cry  I  utter  is,  '  Give  me  a  soft  pencil  and  paper 
—  bind  up  my  wounds!  This  will  make  good 
copy!' 

"  And  a  broken  heart  would  be  so  much  stock  in 
trade  ? "  suggested  Mr.  Corcoran,  in  a  somewhat 
offensive  tone. 

"  A  broken  heart !  "  I  echoed,  with  a  slight  waver- 
ing, and  a  brief  wonder  as  to  whether  I  already 
looked  heartbroken.  Then  I  went  on  briskly, 
"  That's  what  it  would.  When  my  young  man 
turns  out  perfidious  — "  my  breath  gave  a  little 
catch,  at  thought  of  Frank,  but  I  whipped  in  my 
coward  forces  and  held  ahead  bravely  with  the 
comedy  —  "  When  he  turns  out  perfidious  (as  he 
frequently  does)  and  tears  my.  heart  into  little 
agonised  tatters,  would  I  foolishly  seek  to  win  him 


«9»       A  Superfluous  Introduction      <+     65 

back,  or  unenterprisingly  strive  to  escape  the  cruel 
anguish  —  merely  because  it  is  anguish  ?  " 

"But  would  you  not?"  timidly  inquired  the 
young  sister.  Since  her  late  experience,  she  was 
rather  shy  of  me,  as  a  person  who  said  strange 
things  about  familiar  matters;  but  this  was  a  sub- 
ject in  which  she  was  much  and  presently  interested. 

"  No,"  I  protested,  "  and  three  hundred  thousand 
times  no !  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  must  needs  feel  it 
as  a  woman ;  but  I  am  a  writing  woman,  and  I  can- 
not blink  its  magnificent  commercial  possibilities. 
Do  I  moan  '  Come  back  ? '  No,  I  cry  '  Oh,  wow, 
Alphonso,  cruel  one,  you  have  broken  my  heart! 
But  just  go  on,  there's  a  good  fellow ;  wring  it  some 
more,  —  don't  mind  my  tears ;  for  I  tell  you  this 
is  the  real  thing  I  am  feeling  now.  I'll  make  copy 
as  is  copy  out  of  this ! ' 

"  Which  might  be  described,"  allowed  Mr.  Cor- 
coran, "  as  thrift  of  soul." 

"  It  certainly  is  nothing  less,"  I  returned,  com- 
placently. "  And  thus  do  I  yank,  as  it  were,  victory 
out  of  the  clenched  fist  of  defeat." 

Mr.  Corcoran  simply  made  a  wry  face. 

"I  don't  care,"  I  persisted.  "I  think  it's  a 
great  time  —  a  great  time  —  when  there's  a  mar- 
ket for  rages  and  megrims  and  vapours,  if  they 
are  but  properly  dressed." 

"  And  is  there,  really  ?  "  murmured  the  young 
sister. 

"Is  there?  Well,  I  should  think  there  is!"  I 
exclaimed.  "  My  dear  Miss  Phyllis,  there  is  a  fel- 
low like  an  ol'  clo'  man  going  about  buying  up 
your  second-hand  heart-throbs  at  so  much  per  throb, 
and  your  outworn  emotions  at  so  much  an  emote." 


66          -^          The  Last  Word  ^ 

"  She  is  a  little  crazy,  Phyllis,"  explained  Mr. 
Corcoran,  gravely,  "  I  had  to  go  down  to  the  door, 
you  know,  and  get  her  from  the  keeper."  And  we 
all  went  into  the  parlour  for  some  music. 

When  I  got  back  to  Ninth  Avenue,  I  found  that 
the  air-drawn  stake-rope  which  my  jester's  humour 
had  placed  upon  the  elevated  was  broken  and  the 
train  gone.  But  —  pursuing  the  same  mood,  one  I 
loved  and  furthered,  since  it  helped  bravely  to  be- 
guile a  sore  heart  —  another  elevated  —  just  as 
good  every  way  —  came  along  almost  immediately, 
and  I  rode  down-town  on  it. 

All  the  way  home  my  heart  was  singing  a  song, 
whereof  the  refrain  concerned  a  certain  grim,  taci- 
turn, overbearing  young  man. 

Grim,  taciturn,  overbearing  —  that  was  the  outer 
shell.  Part  of  the  time,  when  the  strain  was  gay 
and  hopeful,  it  asserted  that,  within,  there  was  an- 
other creature,  ready  to  come  forth  and  smile  at  my 
touch,  most  winning,  most  lovable,  most  endearing, 
and  all  mine  because  shown  to  me  alone.  And  it 
offered  the  further  comfort  that,  when  this  well- 
remembered  countenance  should  shine  upon  me 
once  more,  everything  that  puzzled  and  wounded 
me  so  would  be  explained.  All  would  be  well. 

And  the  faces,  the  faces,  the  faces,  how  they  chal- 
lenged me  and  called  upon  me.  The  people  in  the 
cars,  on  the  sidewalks,  on  the  bridge,  everywhere. 
I  watched  them  with  unflagging  interest,  unfailing 
sympathy,  these  subjects  of  mine  in  this  my  king- 
dom; and  whether  they  behaved  handsomely,  or 
acted  foolishly  or  wickedly,  I  found  it  to  be  all 
toward  my  entertainment,  instruction,  or  admoni- 
tion. 


«$»       A  Superfluous  Introduction      «$»     67 

To-day  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  pity  them 
-  they  do  not  know  Frank.  The  best  that  can  be 
hoped  for  them  —  and  a  very  unlikely  best  —  is 
that  they  may  sometime  meet  Mr.  Francis  Garnett 
Randolph;  but  poor  things,  poor  things,  it  is  only 
1,  picked  out  of  the  millions  in  the  world,  who  can 
ever  know  Frank. 

Thus,  when  the  strain  was  merry.  But  when 
my  heart  sank  low,  it  whispered  to  me  that  there 
was  no  Frank,  that  the  Frank  of  my  thoughts  was 
only  a  silly  vision;  and  it  wounded  me  with  recol- 
lections of  the  staid  gravity  with  which  that  keeper 
of  Frank,  that  outer  shell,  had  received  an  unneces- 
sary introduction. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  A   Roman   Warrior  —  Sculptor 
Unknown  ' 

"  Poor  captive  bird !     Who,  from  thy  narrow  cage, 
Pourest  such  music." 

AFTER  that  first  day's  conversation  it  became  quite 
the  regular  thing,  if  Mr.  DeWitt  was  late  or  occu- 
pied with  some  one  else,  or  I  remained  after  he  left, 
for  Mr.  Floyd  to  have  something  to  show  me. 

He  never  disturbed  me  if  there  was  any  one  else 
to  whom  I  might  address  myself;  but  after  a  long 
series  of  these  childlike  overtures,  he  asked  one 
day  if  I  would  not  like  to  put  into  his  desk  a 
large  packet  of  manuscript  which  I  desired  to  leave 
at  the  office.  "  It's  such  a  big  desk."  he  explained, 
"  and  I  occupy  exactly  one  drawer  of  it.  It  seems 
a  pity  it  should  not  be  made  of  use." 

His  drawings  were  kept  in  a  case,  made  specially 
for  them;  and  I  had  expressed  some  little  curiosity 
as  to  the  contents  of  that  desk  drawer  which  he  re- 
served. I  spoke  of  it  as  I  sat  down,  and  leaning 
past  me  he  drew  it  open.  "  There,"  he  said,  "  pull 
'em  out  and  look  at  'em.  I'm  sure  it  is  better  than 
they  deserve." 

I  glanced  down  and  saw  little  packages  of  manu- 
script, all  showing  the  perfect  finish  characteristic 

68 


«$»          "A  Roman  Warrior"       «*»       69 

of  Mr.  Floyd's  drawings.  They  were  folded  so 
that  they  looked  almost  like  letters,  though  their 
length  would  rather  suggest  legal  documents. 

"  Try  one  of  them,"  he  encouraged,  as  though 
he  were  speaking  of  an  edible.  Then  to  leave  the 
way  more  open  for  me  to  do  so,  he  turned  to  his 
drawing-board  and  ceased  to  regard  me. 

I  plunged  into  the  first  package  I  drew  out, 
and  was  soon  absorbed.  They  were  fragments  of 
verse,  recollections  of  a  Southern  plantation  home, 
glimpses  of  a  region  and  a  life  most  familiar  to 
me;  the  drollest  and  most  perfect  bits  of  negro 
rhyme,  and  some  tender  and  touching  poems  of 
more  classic  form. 

On  one  scrap  of  paper  scarce  larger  than  a 
visiting-card,  in  the  finest  of  little  characters  were 
these  six  lines : 

"  I  tell  you,  I  have  lived  house-mate  to  Sorrow, 

And  those  her  gaunt,  dark  kindred,  Pain  and  Care, 

Sat  with  us  often,  and  my  life  did  borrow 

From  them  its  shade  and  bitter.     Yea,  I  bare 

And  died  not,  when  to-morrow  and  to-morrow 
Brought  to  my  secret  hope  but  fresh  despair." 

I  read  them  through  again,  then  looked  across  at 
the  man  who  had  written  them,  studying  the  bent 
head,  the  relaxed  lines  of  the  big  frame,  seeking 
to  find  what  it  was  that  wrote  "  defeated  "  across 
his  personality;  and  tenderness,  pity,  the  longing 
to  help,  ached  in  my  throat. 

"  Mr.  Floyd!  "  I  cried,  "  this  is  cruel.  Why  arc 
these  things  lying  here  in  a  drawer,  with  nobody 
to  see  them?  " 

The   big   man    looked    around,    startled.      Then 


yo          <&          The  Last  Word  •& 

his  eyes  softened,  he  smiled  as  he  caught  the  mean- 
ing of  my  protest,  and  attempted  to  pay  me,  or 
did  pay  me  in  his  own  curious  fashion,  a  quaint 
compliment. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,"  he  remonstrated.  '  The 
whole  world  is  looking  at  them  right  now  —  I  am 
perfectly  happy  about  them." 

"  Don't   make   a   joke   of   it,"    I    remonstrated. 
"  Things    like   this  —  real    creations    of    genius  - 
seem  to  me  like  little  children.    They  ought  to  have 
their  chance  in  the  world.     You  have  no  right  to 
deny  it  to  them." 

"  I  am  not  joking,"  he  replied,  seriously.  "  If 
they  diverted  you  for  a  moment  —  if  they  amused 
or  touched  or  interested  you  —  they  have  done  their 
part  in  the  world ;  and  I  should  be  perfectly  willing 
to  see  them  all  burned.  What  is  that  you  have 
under  your  hand  ?  Which  one  of  my  small  children 
pleased  you  most  ?  " 

"  I  love  them  all,"  I  declared ;  "  the  funny  ones 
best.  But  this,"  and  I  put  forward  the  bit  I  held, 
*'  was  the  one  I  happened  to  be  reading  when  T 
spoke." 

He  glanced  over  the  lines,  and  smiled  a  little 
absently.  "  Fellow  felt  pretty  bad  when  he  wrote 
that,  didn't  he?  "  he  murmured  reminiscently.  "  I've 
got  a  longer  howl,  up  here  somewhere  in  the  top 
part  of  the  desk." 

He  searched  it  out  and  handed  it  to  me.  "  Don't 
read  it  now,"  he  cautioned.  :'  You  might  burst 
into  tears  right  here  in  the  office,  and  I'd  be  respon- 
sible. Take  it  home  as  a  —  as  a  —  Valentine,  say." 
And  I  put  the  long  envelope  in  my  pocket. 

I  was  now  boarding  with  the  Corcorans.    It  was 


«$>          "A  Roman  Warrior "        «$»       71 

a  happy  day  for  me  when  they  adopted  me  into  the 
household  of  that  little  flat. 

I  observed  that  nobody  else  called  it  little.  Far 
otherwise,  they  constantly  assured  me  that  this  was 
a  fair-sized  flat.  But  to  me  it  seemed  finished  and 
close  and  small  as  a  cabinet  —  housekeeping  in  min- 
iature. A  pretty  parlour,  four  bits  of  bedrooms 
(there  was  one  to  spare,  and  so  I  could  be  taken  in), 
a  cunning  dining-room ;  a  scrap  of  a  kitchen  that  was 
a  small  domestic  laboratory,  as  neat  and  dainty  as 
the  movement  of  a  Swiss  watch ;  all  planned  to  the 
perfection  of  convenience. 

"  Yes,"  I  allowed,  wistfully,  "  there  is  plenty  of 
everything  except  —  " 

"  Except  what  ?  "  inquired  my  hostess,  sharply. 

"  Well,  room  and  light,"  I  brought  out,  bluntly. 
"  Those  are  the  two  articles  that  wild  people  from 
the  open  plains  find  it  hard  to  do  without  —  room 
and  light." 

Mrs.  Corcoran  merely  looked  amused. 

After  West  Texas,  where  there  is  nothing 
but  sunshine,  space,  and  air,  and  where  the  inter- 
esting problem  two-thirds  of  the  year  is  how  to  bar 
out  this  great  trio  a  bit,  and  make  a  little  quiet 
indoors  to  which  you  may  retire,  this  gloom  and 
contraction  were  to  me  the  most  striking  material 
features  of  my  home  life. 

"  You  must  bear  with  me  till  I  get  tamed  and 
used,"  I  said.  "  Just  now,  these  little  dark  bed- 
rooms "  -  there  were  two  of  them  in  the  flat  — 
"  where  the  gas  must  be  lighted  half  the  day,  seem 
but  chambers  for  the  whispering  of  sad  secrets !  " 

"  Do  they  ?  "  she  laughed.  "  Well,  that  is  a  mis- 
take on  your  part.  They  are  only  the  bedrooms  of 


72          «$»          The  Last  Word  •$» 

an  eight-hundred-a-year  flat.  Of  course,  when  you 
become  rich  and  famous  — 

"All  right!  all  right!"  I  cried;  "I'll  say  no 
more." 

But  these,  my  people,  were  the  dearest  people; 
and  they  had  taken  me  in  and  made  me  one  of 
them,  so  that  I  had  about  me  the  kind  and  com- 
forting air  of  home.  Mr.  Corcoran  put  it  very 
modestly  when  he  said  he  thought  I  would  like  his 
wife.  Anything  —  anything  —  that  lived  in  the 
house  with  her  winning  sweetness,  her  bright, 
wholesome,  hopeful  loveliness,  must  necessarily  love 
her.  And  again,  I  was  not  so  strange  a  being  to 
them,  since  they  themselves  came  from  as  far  away 
as  New  Orleans;  and,  while  that  is  considerably 
short  of  Texas,  my  passwords  were  not  wholly 
unknown  there. 

If  they  sometimes  seemed  to  vaguely  exhale  the 
inference  that  I  ought  to  be  impounded,  it  should 
be  said  that  I  never  succeeded  in  fastening  such  an 
opinion  upon  them.  I  knew  that  they  regarded  me 
as  a  sort  of  superior  savage,  an  amiable,  amusing, 
and  lovable  barbarian.  This  to  me!  Me,  who  at 
home  was  wont  to  consider  myself  (and  am  sure  I 
was  regarded  by  others)  as  a  person  of  refinement! 

"  You  move  about  so  quietly,"  I  complained. 
"  Do  you  never  have  a  violent  emotion  —  even  a 
sudden  sensation?  " 

They  only  laughed.  I  thought  of  Francis  Gar- 
nett  Randolph.  He  was  quiet,  but  it  was  a  vigor- 
ous sort  of  silence.  For  all  his  grace  and  polish, 
that  calm  of  his  was  pregnant  with  action,  even  with 
violence;  and  the  possibility  of  its  coming  to  utter- 
ance did  not  seem  so  remote,  either. 


«f»          "A  Roman  Warrior"        «$»        73 

But  the  others,  the  really  Eastern  people,  appeared 
to  never  draw  a  deep  breath.  For  me,  I  seemed  to 
want  room,  to  be  always  bumping  my  elbows,  es- 
pecially my  verbal  ones.  I  began  to  lose  confi- 
dence in  heretofore-trusted  expressions  and  forms 
of  speech.  I  often  caught  myself  searching  about 
warily  in  my  mind  for  suitably  dilute  terms,  and 
cautiously  qualifying  my  voluntary  statements. 

"  And  to  think,"  I  exclaimed  to  Mr.  Corcoran, 
"  that  I  had  meditated  going  to  Boston !  If  it  is  like 
this  in  New  York,  what  would  it  have  been  in  Bos- 
ton, do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  well  you  began  on  us,  Texas,"  he 
responded,  seriously,  then  for  the  first  time  using 
the  by-name  which  afterward  became  habitual  with 
him.  "  If  you  had  tackled  Boston  at  the  start,  gone 
there  straight  from  the  plains,  why  —  " 

"Well,  then  —  if  I  had?"  I  interrupted,  feeling 
resentfully  that  he  made  too  much  of  this  opening 
which  my  own  generosity  had  offered  him. 

"  Well,"  he  sighed,  "  I  suppose  they  could  only 
have  muzzled  and  hobbled  you,  shod  you  with  list, 
tied  cushions  on  your  elbows,  connected  you  with 
a  fire  and  burglar  alarm,  and  hoped  for  the  best." 

'*'  You  know  that  is  a  ridiculous,  nonsensical  mess 
of  absurdity,"  I  remarked.  "  You  make  me  weary. 
You  are  just  like  Genevieve.  She  wants  to  tame 
and  train  me  —  make  what  she  calls  a  lady  jour- 
nalist of  me." 

"Genevieve?"  inquired  my  listener. 

"  Well,  Miss  Bucks,  you  would  call  her,  of  course 

—  Fashions  and  Fancies  —  Household  Department 

—  down  at  the  office,  you  know." 

"  Why,  yes,  naturally  I  should  call  her  Miss 
Bucks ;  and  her  first  name  is  —  " 


74         «$*          The  Last  Word  «$> 

. "  Do  not  tell  me,"  I  broke  in,  "  I  do  not  want 
to  know.  Genevieve  suits  me  better." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  when  my  eye  first  lit  on 
Miss  Bucks,  long,  rather  informally  put  together, 
with  her  load  of  tan-coloured  hair  making  her 
head  look  too  large,  and  her  dead-serious,  tan-col- 
oured eyes,  I  said  to  myself,  "  You  are  Genevieve ;  " 
and  so  she  had  since  remained  for  me. 

Genevieve  would  fain  have  lured  me  to  the  big 
stores  where  she  got  up  her  fashion  articles.  She 
said  something  pitying  about  the  things  I  wrote 
for  the  office,  spoke  of  my  having  so  free  a  hand 
in  the  matter  of  my  work,  and  added  that  I  ought 
to  deserve  and  make  much  of  such  liberty.  Then 
she  announced  to  me  that  I  might  go  about  on  a 
tour  of  shops  and  stores  with  her  the  following 
week.  I  rashly  consented,  and  was  immediately 
seized  by  regret  for  my  folly,  and  apprehension  of 
the  deadly  stupidity  of  such  a  campaign. 

But  I  was  agreeably  disappointed.  To  speak 
truth,  the  great  bazaars,  magnificent  with  fabrics 
fetched  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  charmed 
my  eyes.  Yet  from  all  these  I  got  away  compara- 
tively whole  and  safe,  and  bearing  the  comforting 
assurance  that  Genevieve  was  pleased  with  me,  and 
hopeful  of  my  future. 

It  was  at  the  Japanese  store  that  I  lost  all  this. 
I  am  so  weak  w,here  Japanese  fixings  are  in  question. 
I  do  love  their  lightness  and  delicacy,  the  sharp, 
angular,  refreshing  grace  of  their  construction. 

I  fell  under  the  fascination  of  a  collection  of 
birds,  snakes,  bugs,  animals,  and  goblins,  in  plaster, 
fur,  feathers,  and  scales,  averaging  about  the  size 
of  one's  thumb,  and  weighing  an  ounce  or  so  apiece. 


-^          "A  Roman  Warrior"       «$»       75 

The  very  least  of  these  —  no  bigger  than  a  thimble 
—  were  so  expressive,  so  bursting  with  character 
and  significance,  that  it  would  make  you  jump  to 
suddenly  encounter  the  sophisticated  gaze  of  them. 

From  this  gay  and  festive  company,  this  gang  of 
wild,  scampish,  demoralised  cynics,  this  Hecate's 
rout  of  leering,  gibing  zoology,  ethnology,  and  fancy- 
run-mad,  I  only  escaped  away  when  I  had  beggared 
both  myself  and  my  companion. 

"  Of  course  you  are  welcome  to  the  money,"  said 
Genevieve,  more  in  grief  than  anger,  as  she  handed 
it  over ;  "  only,  what  you  want  with  that  great  mess 
of  little  frumpy  toys  is  —  " 

"  Toys !  "  I  cried,  aghast.  "  They  are  teachers, 
philosophers,  sages !  Why,  Miss  Bucks,  it's  a  whole 
university  I'll  be  after  getting  for  myself,"  and  I 
turned  feverishly  to  the  precious  assemblage. 

I  bought  a  crocodile  (with  a  leer)  that  always 
gave  me  the  most  agreeable  shivers ;  a  skeleton  sea- 
serpent  that  would  be  a  more  effective  means  of 
temperance  reform  than  a  whole  inebriate  asylum; 
an  ape,  a  porcupine,  a  hippopotamus  (with  a  heavy 
obese  sneer),  a  dog  of  some  revised  and  im- 
proved breed,  a  parrot  of  most  villainous  and 
depraved  countenance,  a  swaggering,  insolent,  and 
dissipated  owl,  a  fat  and  contemplative  toad,  a  pig 
who  knows  the  History  of  the  Beginning  of  Things, 
has  discovered  the  Whence  and  Whither,  and  solved 
the  problem  of  the  Wherefore  (all  for  twenty  cents, 
too),  besides  several  others  that  I  do  not  think  would 
translate  into  English  at  all. 

But  the  darling  of  my  collection  —  chiefest  jewel 
of  the  tribe  —  was  a  seven-inch  dragon,  so  utterly 
frightful  and  appalling  in  his  personal  appearance 


j6          -f»          The  Last  Word  «f» 

that  all  the  little  segregated  uglinesses  displayed 
by  various  individuals  of  the  horde  sank,  by  com- 
parison, into  mere  commonplace.  His  scales,  that 
stood  up  along  his  serpentine  back  in  horrent  rows, 
were  little  shells,  scarce  bigger  than  the  shells  of 
rice  grains ;  his  head  was  plaster ;  those  eyes  which 
he  did  glare  with  were  china;  and,  from  between 
hooked  and  grabful  fangs,  he  lolled  out  a  slim  red 
muslin  tongue,  surrounded  by  a  grin,  the  unspeak- 
able malice  and  soulless  venom  of  which  (though  I 
well  knew  it  to  be  purely  Pickwickian)  made  my 
flesh  to  crawl,  my  heart  to  slow  up,  my  temperature 
to  fall,  and  my  hair  to  rise,  every  time  I  encoun- 
tered it.  Oh,  he  was  bewitchingly  horrible !  Never, 
sure,  did  plaster  and  red  flannel  wear  such  looks  of 
cool  devilry.  He  cost  eighty-five  cents,  too;  and 
by  virtue  of  his  higher  price,  as  well  as  his  superior 
gifts  was  regarded  by  me  —  and  by  all  of  them, 
also  —  as  the  choice  and  master  spirit  of  the  assem- 
bly. 

I  looked  at  my  gathering  of  embodied  fancies, 
sins  and  follies,  crimes,  mistakes  and  failures,  gay 
effronteries,  sluggish  indifferences  and  sullen  de- 
spairs, and  said  to  myself  that  under  their  uncanny 
influence  I  could  write  a  wild,  weird  tale. 

In  the  exuberance  of  my  delight,  I  also  said 
something  of  this  sort  to  Genevieve. 

"  I  do  not  in  the  least  mind  about  the  money,"  she 
repeated,  with  bald  and  remorseless  sincerity;  "but," 
fixing  me  somewhat  coldly  with  those  solemn  eyes 
of  hers,  "  I  think  you  need  something  to  cure  you 
of  such  nonsense,  rather  than  a  lot  of  trash  to  make 
you  worse,  for  you  are  certainly  a  little  mad." 

She  stuck  to  this  conclusion,  and  left  me,  refusing 


«$»          "A  Roman  Warrior "       «f»       77 

firmly  my  invitation  to  come  and  see  some  things 
which  I  found  interesting.  In  fact,  she  was  so  hasty 
and  final  in  her  rejection  of  my  offer  that  it  almost 
suggested  alarm  on  her  part. 

So  I  went  away  by  myself,  down  on  Water 
Street,  among  tarry  odours,  woollen  caps,  and  sea- 
faring commodities,  to  a  little  den  of  which  Bush- 
rod  Floyd  had  told  me;  it  could  scarcely  be  called 
a  shop.  Its  keeper  —  an  Italian,  yet  in  some  sort 
a  fellow  countryman  of  mine  —  made  the  plaster 
casts  one  buys  of  street  venders,  on  the  corner  of 
Sixth  Avenue  and  Fourteenth  or  Twenty-third 
Street. 

In  those  early  days  I  hung  about  that  place;  al- 
most I  could  not  get  away  at  all.  And  we  would 
talk,  my  Lorenzo  Bartolli  and  I,  he  speaking  in  a 
very  little  broken,  hesitating  English,  but  both  of 
us  using  more  the  common  language  of  the  eye,  the 
hand,  the  attitude. 

For  this  small,  crooked,  musty  Italian  had  a  much 
better  intelligence  than  the  usual  run  of  his  kind. 
He  hated  and  despised,  like  any  true  artist,  the 
various  examples  of  nameless  trash  he  reproduced 
for  sale,  and  loved  the  classic  pieces.  The  week 
before,  I  had  found,  among  a  lot  of  rubbish,  a  small 
cast  which,  having  become  very  dirty,  had  been 
bronzed.  A  little  equestrian  statuette  —  a  good 
horse  —  a  good  rider ;  it  struck  a  chord  of  home  in 
my  heart. 

What  did  it  signify  that  dress  and  accoutrement 
were  of  the  time  of  the  crusades;  that  no  coiled 
rope  hung  beside  the  tall  saddle-bow,  no  broad  cinch 
circled  the  flank,  no  "  slicker  "  flapped  behind  the 
high  cantle? 


78         -^          The  Last  Word  <& 

At  how  many  roping  matches  and  cowboy  tour- 
naments had  I  seen  and  admired,  in  how  many 
roundups,  and  on  how  many  lonely  trails  had  I 
met  or  ridden  beside  this  figure's  living  counterpart 
and  descendant !  How  frequently  in  the  vicissitudes 
of  frontier  life  had  I  experienced  his  unbounded 
kindness  and  generosity,  or  at  remote  ranches  or 
incidental  cow-camps  partaken  of  his  hospitality 
which  is  as  the  Arab's !  And  how  often,  on  distant, 
wind-raked,  sun-scorched  prairies,  had  I  seen  him 
outlined  (motionless  and  solitary  upon  some  com- 
manding rise  from  which  that  hawklike  eye  could 
search  for  straying  sheep  or  cattle)  against  a  morn- 
ing or  an  evening  sky! 

Here  were  the  same  deep  seat  in  the  saddle,  the 
long,  blending  lines  of  horse  and  rider,  the  slack 
rein  on  the  savage  curb,  the  same  high  heel  and 
pointed  toe,  the  broad  hat,  the  lean,  keen,  kindly 
face,  the  strong,  lean,  nervous  body. 

He  would  not  sell  it  to  me,  the  little  bright-eyed 
priest  of  that  dim  and  dusty  temple.  It  was  "  notta 
count,"  he  said;  and  he  gave  it  to  me.  with  amaze- 
ment in  his  face,  tempered,  I  fear,  with  scorn. 

"  You  care  for  these,"  he  said,  indicating  his 
classic  figures  with  a  quick,  backward  sweep  of 
his  hand.  "  How  can  you  love-a  this  ?  It  is  noth- 
ing— it  is  of  the  Renaissance." 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  said,  as  he  wrapped  it  up  for  me. 
"  It  is  of  Texas." 

He  looked  at  me  doubtfully  and  repeated,  with 
a  rising  inflection,  "  Of  Tet-saas?  " 

Genevieve  despised  it  utterly.  Mrs.  Corcoran 
called  it  a  "  clock  figure ;  "  even  Mr.  Corcoran  was 
coldly  indifferent.  As  for  Francis  Garnett  Ran- 


«$»          "A  Roman  Warrior"       «$»       79 

dolph,  whose  conjectured  preferences  had  a  way  of 
suggesting  themselves  to  me  as  a  dictum  from  which 
there  could  be  no  appeal,  he  would  never  see  it,  and 
of  course  it  would  be  only  a  plaster  cast  to  him. 
But  I  —  I  lived  before  I  came  to  New  York ;  and 
the  horse  and  the  rider  of  the  Renaissance  had  for 
me  another  meaning,  as  fine  in  its  way  as  Mr.  Bar- 
tolli's  beloved  classic  pieces. 

He  knew  them  all,  did  Lorenzo,  and  conned  over 
—  reverently  as  he  would  a  calendar  of  saints  — 
the  names  of  those  starry  immortals,  their  creators. 
There,  in  that  dingy  little  hole,  ranged  on  a  shelf, 
in  front  of  a  strip  of  dull  red  stuff,  he  had  set  a 
group  before  which  I  must  needs  worship. 

There  is  no  phase  of  man's  spiritual  life  which 
is  not  typed  for  the  seeing  eye  in  the  products  of 
man's  art.  The  soul,  knowing  not  words,  recog- 
nising only  symbols,  may  be  addressed  by  these, 
and  will  hearken  to  them  more  readily  than  to 
any  human  teacher.  When  forms  of  beauty  no  lon- 
ger say  to  me,  "  peace,"  "  truth,"  "  love,"  I  shall 
begin  to  question  if  my  soul  waxes  not  hard  of 
hearing. 

The  day  Genevieve  and  I  parted,  with  our  usual 
pronounced  divergence  of  opinion,  I  stopped  long  in 
this  unconsecrated  temple  of  Father  Lorenzo,  high 
priest  of  Silent  Beauty,  worshipping  at  this  most  un- 
orthodox altar  (yet  where  I  found  set  forth  well- 
nigh  all  that  appeared  to  me  worshipful,  as:  love, 
courage,  nobility,  tenderness,  hope,  beauty  of  idea 
and  of  form),  thinking  a  little  heavily  that  it  was 
weary  work  forgetting  people  who  were  daily  before 
your  eyes,  and  sometimes  in  their  sweetest  phase. 

If  I  merely  met  Frank  in  the  office  for  a  formal 


8o          -^          The  Last  Word  «^ 

greeting,  most  of  all  when  I  saw  how  important  a 
personage  he  was  there,  with  the  privacy  of  his 
special  inner  office  defended  by  a  suave  young  man 
whose  business  it  was  to  politely  pass  all  applicants 
for  admission  through  a  fiery  furnace  of  inquiry 
and  deliver  them  over  to  a  private  secretary  if  they 
once  flinched  —  when  I  saw  these  things  I  was  bet- 
ter. But  when  I  rode  up  in  the  elevator  with  him, 
and  heard  a  deep-toned  word  meant  for  my  ear 
alone,  when  I  found  his  eyes  fixed  upon  me  with 
jealous  tenderness  as  I  paused  to  consult  Mr.  De- 
Witt  or  Bushrod  Floyd  over  some  detail  of  my 
work,  the  old  sickness  of  the  soul  rushed  back  upon 
me  and  enveloped  me  for  hours. 

I  longed  for  some  sure  specific  for  this  ailing, 
and  I  sought  it  doggedly  in  my  work. 

The  door  of  my  Italian  friend's  shop  rang  a  bell 
to  warn  him  of  a  customer's  entrance.  When  he 
once  saw  that  it  was  only  I  —  now  since  I  was 
become  almost  a  member  of  the  staff  —  he  let  me 
prowl  for  long,  delightful  quarter-hours  alone  amid 
the  dusty  white  world  of  the  shop.  Thus  investi- 
gating for  myself  in  that  place  of  fate,  I  rummaged 
out  a  small  and  dusty  bust  from  a  corner,  and  set 
it  upon  the  counter. 

I  looked  at  my  find,  and  a  sudden  qualm  that 
was  almost  faintness  came  upon  me.  There  was  a 
helmet  on  the  proud  head,  and  some  impossible  curl- 
ing hair  under  the  helmet's  rim.  The  stern  eyes 
were  sightless ;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  lift 
of  that  chin,  its  forward  thrust,  and  the  curl  of  the 
lip  above  it,  the  ineffable  sweep  of  the  haughty 
nostril,  the  power  in  that  broad,  white  forehead, 
the  browbeating,  overbearing  strength  —  and  yet 


"'A    ROMAN    WARRIOR —  SCULPTOR   UNKNOWN1" 


•&          "A  Roman  Warrior"       «*»        81 

the  beauty  —  the  merciless  beauty  —  of  the  whole 
countenance.  It  was  my  neighbour  of  the  train  — 
president  of  the  Salem  Publishing  Company  —  he 
who  was  ever  in  my  thoughts,  who  put  me  from  my 
rest  by  night,  and  for  whose  sake  I  went  heavily. 
It  was  he,  but  with  the  sweetness  left  out  of  him. 

Mr.  Bartolli  came  in  as  I  finished  dusting  it  with 
my  handkerchief.  He  searched  out  a  tattered  cat- 
alogue and  placed  his  white-powdered  finger  upon 
a  line  which  read,  "  A  Roman  warrior.  Sculptor 
unknown." 

"  Yes,"  I  agreed,  "  the  noblest  Roman  of  them 
all  —  but  I  do  not  think  the  bust  would  have  pleased 
his  wife." 

My  Italian  laughed.    "  He  have  no  wife,"  he  said. 

"  So  he  told  me,"  I  murmured,  adding,  "  It's  a 
good  likeness,  but  it  does  not  do  him  justice." 

"  You  like  him  ?  "  inquired  Lorenzo.  "  Nobody 
else  like  him  much.  I  sell  him  cheap.  'Bout  ten 
cents." 

And  for  the  poor  fee  of  ten  cents  I  carried  Fran- 
cis Garnett  Randolph  —  or  the  more  unlovable  part 
of  him  —  home  with  me,  and  set  him.  not  beside  the 
Texas  figure  for  all  the  world  to  see,  but  in  a  little 
niche  amongst  my  books  where  old  Omar's  half-sad, 
half-smiling  face  in  the  Rubaiyat  concealed  him, 
and  where  I  could,  when  assailed  by  any  foolish 
sentiment  or  tender  longings,  uncover  the  stern 
features  and  learn  once  more  a  lesson  which  had 
a  vexatious  way  of  coming  unlearned. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

St.   Patrick's   Day  in   the   Morning 

"  The  emblems  on  thy  shrine  embossed, 
A  broken  head,  shillelahs  crossed  — 
Relics  of  those  who  celebrate 
St.  Patrick's  Day." 

ONE  fine,  bright  March  forenoon,  I  went  into 
the  office,  when  Mr.  Floyd,  contrary  to  his  custom, 
intercepted  me  as  I  would  have  passed  his  desk. 

"  The  boss  isn't  in  yet,"  he  deprecated ;  "  and  I 
have  something  to  show  you  —  something  I  think 
you  will  like.  Sit  here." 

I  found  the  "  something  "  to  be  a  dozen  exquisite 
little  drawings  of  Texas,  used,  as  all  Bushrod's 
drawings  were,  for  initials,  tail-pieces,  and  enrich- 
ments. There  was  Texas,  standing  slim-legged  and 
round-eyed,  with  one  paw  raised,  looking  right 
out  at  you;  the  dog's  head  alone,  with  its  big, 
clear  eyes  —  so  like  a  little  deer's  head ;  Texas 
careering  through  space  after  baseless,  visionary 
mice. 

All  were  most  cleverly  done.  Bushrod  had  caught 
perfectly  the  personality  of  the  little  dog,  and  put 
into  these  tiny  pictures,  along  with  the  big  eyes, 
slim  legs,  and  active,  airy  body,  the  fine,  sensitive, 
affectionate  dog's  soul  —  and  I  said  so,  warmly. 

"  They  are  for  a  dog  story  that  is  to  be  run  in 
82 


«$>     St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning  «$»    83 

the  weekly,  sometime  next  month,"  he  said.  "  Texas 
has  made  great  friends  with  me.  We  are  similarly 
circumstanced  in  some  ways.  We're  both  lonesome 
fellows."  And  after  a  long  pause,  so  low  I  hardly 
caught  the  words,  "  You  didn't  want  either  of  us." 

I  turned,  laughing.  It  was  one  of  Mr.  Floyd's 
extravagant,  half-sentimental  jokes.  But  I  found 
something,  back  of  the  smile  which  answered  mine, 
that  set  me  thinking,  uncomfortably. 

But  there,  nonsense  —  of  course  —  if  he  hadn't 
said  it  quite  so  low,  I  should  have  been  entirely 
certain  it  was  only  a  joke. 

I  remembered  with  a  start  that  I  had  never  even 
read  poor  Bushrod's  valentine,  and  resolved  to  do 
so  as  soon  as  I  got  home,  that  day. 

A  boy  came  and  called  Mr.  Floyd  to  go  across  the 
street  to  the  printing  department.  Save  Mr.  Cor- 
coran deeply  absorbed  at  his  desk,  there  was  not 
a  soul  about  upon  whom  I  had  any  personal  claim. 
I  sat  and  waited  vainly  for  "  the  boss,"  as  Bushrod 
called  him. 

Briefly,  the  time  approached  when  my  weekly 
stunt  of  copy  should  be  handed  in,  and  where  it  was 
to  come  from  I  knew  not.  All  week  I  had  mostly 
been  engaged  in  doing  those  things  which  I  ought 
to  have  left  undone,  when  I  should  have  been  doing 
the  things  which  I  ought  to  have  done;  working 
-but  at  vagrant,  lawless,  and  wholly  inapplicable 
stuff  —  when  I  should  have  been  asleep ;  loafing 
uneasily  about  when  I  should  have  been  at  work. 
And  all  the  time  beset  by  a  horde  of  thoughts,  recol- 
lections, images,  which,  though  I  disallowed  and 
denied  them,  left  me,  at  the  end  of  the  struggle, 
bankrupt  of  strength  and  spirit. 


84          «$»          The  Last  Word  +> 

I  found  explanation  for  my  silenced,  disqualified 
condition,  hopeful  explanation,  as  reasonable  as  in- 
effectual. I  told  myself  —  what  was  true  enough 
—  that  some  of  the  subjects  had  behaved  frivo- 
lously, meanly,  not  to  say  disgustingly;  that  I  had 
read  a  pessimistic  book ;  and  that  I  had  gone  to  see 
a  play  by  some  wretch  of  a  Norseman  —  or  Dutch- 
man, or  Russian  —  which  urged  upon  the  soul  a 
conviction  of  the  propriety  of  despair.  And  now  I 
had  the  returns  from  such  a  week's  management, 
in  the  form  of  a  sore  heart  and  an  empty  mind 
with  which  to  perform  the  week's  task. 

I  stood  a  long  time  at  a  window  looking  unsee- 
ingly  out,  thinking  all  this,  hoping  Mr.  DeWitt 
would  come  in  and  give  me  some  suggestion  — 
even  an  order  would  have  been  meekly  and  grate- 
fully accepted.  My  mind  felt  to  me  like  a  locomotive 
that  had  run  into  a  vast  mud  bank. 

"  Texas,  what  are  you  hanging  about  here  for  at 
this  hour?  "  suddenly  inquired  Mr.  Corcoran. 

I  jumped.  "  I  am  not  hanging  about,"  I  retorted, 
indignantly.  "  I'm  waiting  for  —  " 

"  You're  getting  low  in  your  mind,  Texas,"  he 
interrupted.  "  I  am  pained  at  it.  Go  and  see  the 
St.  Patrick's  Day  parade  —  why  didn't  I  think  of  it 
before?  It  is  just  the  thing  for  you." 

"Why  for  me,  particularly?"  I  inquired,  with 
suspicion. 

"  Well,"  rejoined  Mr.  Corcoran,  unabashed,  "  if 
I  am  any  judge  of  people  and  conditions,  it  will 
supply  the  exact  elements  your  mental  digestion 
demands,  and  for  the  lack  of  which  your  spirit  is 
right  now  drooping." 

I  examined  his   face  with  guilty  apprehension. 


«$»     St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning  «f»    85 

But  I  need  not  have  been  disquieted.  He  only 
thought  me  dispirited  and  homesick,  and  sought  to 
rally  me  a  bit. 

Now  he  added  with  a  genial  smile :  "  That's 
right!  You  try  it  and  see  if  it  doesn't." 

"  It  might  make  copy.  When  shall  I  go,  and 
where?  "  said  I. 

"  Well,  they're  advertised  to  start  up  Fifth  Ave- 
nue at  two  o'clock,  and  they  won't  be  comfortably 
and  entertainingly  full  before  four.  Suppose  you 
start  about  half-past  two?  Come  down  to  Twenty- 
third  Street  from  the  house;  then  go  out  to  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  you'll  find  it  just  happening  right 
along.  Oh,  you'll  like  it  —  there  isn't  a  shadow  of 
doubt  in  my  mind  about  that !  " 

It  was  plain  to  me  he  had  no  ulterior  thoughts, 
and  meant  only  to  be  funny.  So  I  assumed  my 
usual  air  of  ignoring  this  intention,  and  went  out 
without  remark. 

At  the  elevator  I  encountered  Mr.  DeWitt  and 
Mr.  Randolph.  "  Where  away?  "  inquired  my  edi- 
tor. The  other  gave  me  a  low-spoken  "  Good-morn- 
ing/' and  a  look. 

"  St.  Patrick's  Day  parade,"  I  responded,  briefly, 
and  Mr.  DeWitt  laughed  as  though  I  had  told  him  a 
joke. 

"  Good  idea.  But  say  —  don't  go  off  with  the 
band  and  forget  to  come  back  to  dinner.  You  know 
we're  all  dining  at  your  house  to-night,"  and  he 
included  the  president  with  a  glance. 

I  had  not  known  it;  that  is,  I  had  missed  the 
only  momentous  feature  of  it  —  that  Frank  was 
coming.  And  now,  with  the  disquieting  knowledge 
suddenly  thrust  upon  me,  it  was  not  easy  to  treat 


86          <&>          The  Last  Word  «$» 

Mr.  DeWitt's  facetious  inferences  with  that  silent 
and  lofty  superiority  which  it  was  my  endeavour 
consistently  to  show  toward  this  attitude  in  my 
associates. 

This  difficulty  added  insolence  to  the  tone  and 
glance  with  which  I  replied;  but  Mr.  DeWitt 
laughed  good-naturedly  and  looked  significantly  at 
Mr.  Randolph,  as  though  my  impertinence  were  the 
ill-behaviour  of  a  child  "  showing  off "  before  a 
visitor. 

At  lunch,  the  family  were  unanimously  interested 
in  the  St.  Patrick's  Day  parade  idea.    Mrs.  Corcoran 
inquired  if  the  notion  were  mine,  and  interrupted 
herself  to  declare  —  in  chorus  with  the  others  — 
that  it  was  a  good  one,  anyhow. 

I  caught  the  infection  and  grew  much  enamoured 
of  the  plan  myself,  expecting  to  get  some  good  copy 
out  of  it. 

Phyllis  wanted  to  put  a  green  ribbon  on  me. 
Mrs.  Corcoran  cried,  "  Oh,  you  must  have  a  bou- 
quet, so  they'll  think  it's  for  Dennis,  or  Mike,  or 
whoever  your  best  man  in  the  parade  is,  and  every- 
body will  make  way  for  you  everywhere." 

But  —  by  this  time  very  much  enlisted  —  I 
scorned  precautions  and  despised  counsel.  And  I 
went  forth  snorting,  as  it  were,  with  eagerness  for 
the  fray,  and  in  a  state  of  puffed  up  complacency 
that  was,  as  I  saw  it  afterward,  nothing  short  of 
an  invitation  for  something  to  come  and  fall  on  me. 

I  came  upon  the  parade  at  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Twenty-third  Street;  and  oh,  it  was  delightful! 
There  would  be  a  band  playing  away  for  dear  life, 
and  everybody  marching  very  much  in  step.  Grad- 
ually, things  became  more  and  more  straggling, 


«9»     St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning  «$»    87 

until  it  was  a  regular  go-as-you-please  scramble. 
Then  another  band,  everybody  in  step  again,  and 
so  on,  over  and  over.  It  —  the  procession  —  was 
like  a  string  of  musical  beads. 

Presently  there  was  a  long  gap  in  its  ranks. 
Upon  the  interval  of  silence  there  suddenly  broke 
the  blare  of  a  trumpet,  far  down  the  avenue,  back- 
grounded by  the  murmur  of  drums  and  the  throb- 
bing suggestion  of  marching  feet.  As  I  —  and 
everybody  else  —  pressed  forward  listening,  some 
companies  of  well-drilled  cadets  came  in  sight  march- 
ing solidly,  the  slant  sun  gleaming  along  their  gun- 
barrels  and  on  their  shining  accoutrements.  Their 
band  struck  up  a  stirring  march,  the  dense  spiritual 
atmosphere  which  had  so  clogged  and  stifled  me 
lifted.  My  breath  came  light  and  quick;  my  blood 
started  off  gaily ;  and  I  agreed  with  myself  that  Mr. 
Corcoran's  idea  was  a  good  one. 

What  is  it  so  taking  about  things  military  ?  The 
mere  fluttering  tap-tap  of  a  gray  cape,  tossed  back 
over  a  martial  shoulder  and  dipping  in  time  to  the 
wearer's  step,  is  snatching;  the  squeal  of  a  fife,  the 
boom-boom  of  the  big  drum,  the  kindling  rattle  of 
the  little  ones,  the  pulsing  tread,  the  clinking  of 
sabres  —  how  inspiring !  How  we  all  stop  and  gaze 
at  and  admire  the  military  dress  and  bearing,  and 
listen  to  the  martial  music!  Every  eye  brightened 
as  the  young  soldiers  approached,  every  foot  kept 
time,  responsive  to  the  thrilling  horns  and  rhythmic 
drums. 

It  is  the  urchin  in  all  our  hearts  which  shouts 
back  so  eagerly  to  this  sort  of  thing.  And  the  finest 
of  us  —  the  most  evolved  —  who  has  not  a  touch 
of  this  boy  nature,  lacks  something.  It  is  the 


88          «f»          The  Last  Word  <$> 

element  in  us  that  keeps  the  world  young  and  stir- 
ring, that  reads  border  romances,  gives  great  figures 
to  history,  art,  and  the  stage,  and  furnishes  them 
admiring  audiences. 

See  the  drum-major !    He  is  a  mood. 

Old  or  young,  big  or  little,  plain  or  handsome, 
he  is  pure  mood. 

Look  at  him  as  he  comes  swelling  down  the 
street  in  advance  of  the  band.  Wouldn't  you  give 
all  your  painfully  acquired  pelf  and  pessimism,  your 
neuralgia  and  notes  negotiable,  to  feel  like  that  for 
just  ten  minutes? 

Ah,  the  delightful,  jaunty,  bumptious,  extravagant 
mood!  How  elate  that  head,  how  rigid  that  spine, 
what  fluent  step,  what  lubricated  prance!  What 
rollicking  abandon  of  happy  conceit  and  superlative 
swagger ! 

So  antic!  A  fool,  but  not  a  solemn  fool.  No, 
a  gay,  waggish  fool  who  tips  you  the  sly  and  know- 
ing wink  as  he  goes  strutting  past,  as  much  as  to 
say,  '*  All  fun,  you  know." 

The  excess  and  ecstasy  of  flamboyant  ornamenta- 
tion and  martial  splendour  burst  out  all  over  him 
—  nothing  is  gorgeous  and  gallant  and  audacious 
enough-  for  this  magnificent  mood.  The  golden 
cords  and  buttons  and  epaulettes,  the  plumes,  the 
fur,  the  glittering  baton  —  these,  you  should  know, 
are  but  symbols  of  the  jocund  soul  within;  the  gay, 
powerful,  merrymaker  mind. 

I  am  sorry  for  you  if  you  have  never  known 
him  —  the  drum-major.  There  must  be  something 
amiss  with  your  digestion,  your  circulation,  or  your 
conscience. 

How  often  has  he  been  mine!     So  often  that  I 


«$»     St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning  «9»    89 

have  come  to  know  him  well,  even  by  name.  And 
when  I  walk  out  in  the  sunshine,  holding  my  gifts 
— youth,  health,  a  modest  measure  of  success  — 
and  feel  the  tingling  ebullience  of  sheer  mettle  and 
vainglory  expanding  in  my  veins,  dilating  my  nos- 
trils, lifting  my  feet  high,  rolling  my  eyes,  and 
thrusting  out  my  under  lip  in  glorious  buncombe  and 
bravado,  I  laugh  out  loud  and  cry,  "  Ho,  here's  the 
drum-major !  Hail,  and  thrice  welcome,  Sir  Soldier 
Fool!" 

This  St.  Patrick's  Day  parade  was  a  very  glorious 
parade  indeed;  this  drum-major,  a  being  of  super- 
nal splendour,  even  as  drum-majors  go,  was  alone 
worth  the  trip.  There  were  queer  wagons  with 
two  wheels,  and  yet  queerer  ones  with  four.  There 
were  strange  hand-barrows  or  stretcher-like  affairs 
carried  by  four  resplendent  creatures,  upon  which 
(the  barrows  or  stretchers)  standards  were  mounted, 
presenting  to  the  eye,  in  big  letters,  noble  sentiments, 
moral  maxims  or  inflammatory  doctrines.  And 
everywhere  there  were  flags,  banners,  badges,  and 
funny  hats,  collars,  and  aprons. 

Now,  women  dressed  up,  tricked  out  and  on  pa- 
rade, wear  always  the  greatest  variety  of  smirks.  No 
two  faces  will  have  the  same  degree  or  quality  of  self- 
consciousness  or  simpering  complacency.  But  a  lot 
of  men  in  silk  and  tinsel,  fringe  and  feathers,  can 
always  be  divided  into  two  classes,  —  the  tickled 
and  the  sheepish. 

I  watched  with  delight  the  first  sort  strut  along, 
rejoicing  like  South  Sea  Islanders  in  every  one  of 
their  seven  colours ;  glorying  in  every  shred  of 
tinsel  and  every  chicken  feather.  And  with  a  joy 
if  possible  finer,  I  observed  the  other  sort  skulk, 


90          «f»          The  Last  Word  «9» 

hang-dog,  beside  these  (with  an  occasional  sudden 
glance  of  desperation  which  suggested  the  desire  to 
bolt),  trying  to  hide  their  white  cotton  gloves  under 
their  green  silk  aprons ;  then,  terrified,  to  hide  their 
green  silk  aprons  with  their  white  cotton  gloves; 
finally,  in  despair,  to  look  nonchalant  and  uncon- 
cerned ;  in  which  latter  they  succeed  so  well  that  you 
would  imagine  a  policeman  waiting  around  the  cor- 
ner to  take  them  back  the  minute  the  jamboree  was 
over. 

Well,  the  parade  paraded,  and  so  did  the  blood  in 
my  veins.  Every  time  it  (the  parade)  got  entirely 
past,  I  went  back  to  Sixth  Avenue,  got  a  car,  rode 
up  ahead  and  caught  it  again,  all  the  while  blessing 
Mr.  Corcoran  for  his  clever  suggestion.  And  every 
time  I  caught  it  again  it  was  happier,  less  in  step, 
and  more  go-as-you-please.  The  parties  sitting 
dos  a  dos  on  the  Irish  jaunting  car  with  a  green 
piano  cover  over  it,  hit  each  other  upon  the  back  of 
the  head  more  vehemently  and  promiscuously,  as 
they  waved  their  flags ;  I  began  to  understand  what 
a  St.  Patrick's  Day  hat  is. 

Everybody  laughed  more.  I  laughed  more.  Then 
I  stopped  in  amazement  wondering  to  hear  my  own 
laugh.  Where  —  when  —  had  the  heart  to  laugh 
come  to  me?  But  it  was  vain  to  ask  myself,  vain  to 
decide  for  a  more  dignified  demeanour.  The  infec- 
tion was  in  the  air,  and  to  save  my  life  I  could  not 
help  being  just  as  jolly  as  the  best  of  them. 

I  accepted  the  sudden  and  grateful  change  in  men- 
tal weather  gladly,  and  laughed  willingly  with  those 
about  me.  Some  of  the  riders  began  to  have  a 
rotary  motion  on  their  horses,  and  to  smile  indul- 
gently at  space.  I  had  a  fine  wicked  sense  of  being 


^     St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning  «$»    91 

out,  with  a  lot  of  wild,  reckless,  fellow  roisterers, 
on  a  grand  spree. 

Suddenly,  away  up  town,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
just  as  I  was  applauding  the  discriminating  clever- 
ness of  Mr.  Corcoran's  suggestion  for  the  several- 
hundredth  time,  I  was  fastened  in  a  solid  mass  of 
good-humoured  humanity,  so  dense  that  I  couldn't 
wink,  much  less  budge  a  foot.  There  I  stood,  be- 
coming more  and  more  inebriated  every  moment, 
as  I  inhaled  gallons  and  gallons  of  condensed  alco- 
holic vapour.  "  I  shall  be  drunk  and  disorderly  in 
ten  minutes  if  this  holds  out.  Oh,  for  a  green  rib- 
bon —  a  bouquet  —  oh,  for  a  cabbage  leaf !  "  I 
moaned. 

"  Lord  love  yez,  honey,  Oi'll  fix  yez !  "  rolled  out 
a  mellow  voice;  a  big  hand  plucked  me  through 
the  crush,  to  the  curbstone;  everybody  laughed  a 
great  deal  (including  me)  ;  somebody  tied  something 
on  me;  a  bunch  of  disorganised  flowers  was  put 
in  my  hand ;  "  Take  ut  an'  welkim,"  said  the  donor, 
"Oi've  sivin." 

Just  then,  in  the  flash  of  an  eye  there  opened 
through  the  swaying  crowd  a  clear,  straight  lane, 
and  at  its  end  I  saw,  facing  me,  Francis  Garnett 
Randolph!  He  stood  there  in  that  heterogeneous 
rabble,  immaculate,  correct,  making  a  sort  of  vacant 
place  for  himself  in  the  press  just  by  expecting  it. 
His  astonished  eyes  dwelt  upon  me  for  one  dizzying 
instant.  Then  I  turned  to  flee.  Flight,  in  that  press, 
was  something  like  the  mad  rush  of  a  fly  in  a  glue 
pot.  I  looked  out  to  the  open  space  of  avenue,  where 
there  came  worming  its  way  along  southward  one 
of  those  instruments  of  retribution  upon  an  unjust 
generation,  a  Fifth  Avenue  stage.  I  waggled  a  fee- 


92          «f»  The  Last  Word  «$> 

ble  hand  at  it,  whereupon,  to  my  dreamy  surprise,  it 
stopped.  I  entered  it  and  started  homeward.  I 
went  in  a  sort  of  nightmare.  It  seemed  to  me  the 
passengers  all  looked  at  me  queerly;  but  then  so 
many  things  were  strange  that  I  didn't  pay  much 
attention. 

We  came  to  Fifty-ninth  Street.  I  pulled  the 
strap.  That  strap  pulled,  I  know,  locks  the  wheels 
by  electricity,  throttles  the  driver,  and  hamstrings 
both  horses.  For  when  it  is  pulled,  pull  you  never 
so  gently,  it  stops  the  stage  like  a  thunderbolt,  throw- 
ing all  the  passengers  in  a  heap  in  the  forward  end 
(I  understood  then  why  I  found  them  there  when 
I  entered)  and  you  underneath  the  pile,  no  matter  in 
what  part  of  the  vehicle  you  are  standing  when  the 
crash  comes. 

From  the  nethermost  layer  of  this  heap  I  crawled 
out  and,  by  way  of  two  other  cars,  made  my  way 
home,  rang  the  bell,  and  the  door  opened. 

I  was  as  a  sheep  to  the  slaughter.  Oh,  it  was 
written  that  it  should  be  so.  For  I  walked  up-stairs 
and  into  the  dining-room  where  the  family  and 
guests  were  at  dinner.  In  the  stress  and  imminence, 
as  it  were,  of  my  latter  adventures,  and  the  emotions 
thereby  induced,  all  other  matters  had  escaped  me. 
I  had  succeeded  in  so  losing  and  neglecting  the 
creeping  hours  of  time,  that  I  walked  in  utterly 
oblivious  and  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  it  was  past 
our  dinner  hour,  and  that  Mr.  DeWitt,  Miss  Bucks 
—  and  Frank  —  would  be  dining  with  us. 

I  hope  I  have  friends.  I  believe  that  I  have  gone 
to  places  to  see  people  who  have  much  desired  my 
presence,  and  who  rejoiced  at  my  arrival.  I  do 
think  this;  but  no  welcome  I  had  ever  met  in  the 


«*»     St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning  <&  93 

past  could  compare  in  spontaneity  and  floridity  with 
the  one  my  Seventy-fourth  Street  friends  almost 
threw  at  me  on  the  evening  of  this  particular  St. 
Patrick's  Day.  No,  I  was  never  greeted  with  so 
much  enthusiasm  in  my  life.  They  howled  —  I  re- 
peat the  word  —  howled.  I  heard  even  Miss  Bucks 
laugh  out  a  strange  big  haw !  haw !  The  men  simply 
shook  the  roof.  They  all  looked  at  each  other  and 
smote  their  hands  together,  and  laughed  aloud 
again.  Never,  never  had  I  thought  to  see  these 
extremely  quiet  and  well-regulated  people  so  lively. 
It  was  rather  too  much  for  even  my  long-suffering 
good  nature. 

"  Maybe,"  I  observed,  "  when  you  have  done 
cackling  and  screeching,  you  will  tell  me  what 
amuses  you  so." 

"  Texas,"  said  my  host,  rising  and  wiping  away 
his  tears.  "  I'm  shocked  at  you.  I  wouldn't  have 
thought  you'd  do  it.  But  I  blame  myself,  too;  for 
the  suggestion  was  mine.  DeWitt,  we  must  be  more 
careful ;  it  won't  do  to  let  her  out  alone  this  way  any 
more.  How  did  you  get  home,  Texas?  Where  is 
the  policeman  ?  " 

Here  Mr.  DeWitt  came  to  the  surface  with  — 
"  If  you  were  only  —  er  —  in  a  condition  to  do  it, 
what  a  story  you  could  make  out  of  yourself  as  a 
result  —  a  product  —  a  sort  of  reminiscence,  a  sou- 
venir —  of  the  parade." 

I  would  have  said  that  they  all  grinned  approv- 
ingly, but  I  found  afterward  that  there  was  one 
exception.  "This,"  Mr.  DeWitt  went  on,  with  a 
wave  of  the  hand,  which  included  every  shameful 
item  of  my  appearance,  "  was  never  brought  about 
without  several  very  capable  causes,  the  history  of 
which  —  " 


94          «$*          The  Last  Word  «^ 

"  Illustrated  by  a  pair  of  pictures  of  you,"  broke 
in  Mr.  Corcoran.  "  St.  Patrick's  Day  Parade.  '  Be- 
fore Taking  and  After  Taking,'  see?  "  and  he  stood 
me  up  in  front  of  a  mirror. 

I  involuntarily  looked  into  it.  My  wounded  self- 
respect  perished  incontinently,  my  rage  subsided. 
The  utter  uselessness  of  all  explanation  held  me 
silent. 

My  big,  furry  hat  sat  at  a  rakish  angle  on  the 
back  of  my  head;  the  choice  assortment  of  costly 
exotic  poultry  which  decorated  it  was  in  a  state  of 
violent  internecine  warfare.  Through  the  very 
vitals  of  the  big  black  parrot  was  jabbed  the  staff 
of  a  small  green  flag,  with  a  harp  of  Erin  printed 
upon  it  in  gold;  while  the  smaller  ornithological 
fry  was  scattered  about,  disposed  in  various  atti- 
tudes of  frightful  disorder,  suggestive  of  fierce  com- 
bat and  agonised  death.  Over  my  left  eye  was  a 
smutch  of  dark  colour  which  gave  me  a  shamefully 
significant  permanent  wink;  one  side  of  my  coat 
collar  was  up  and  one  down;  around  one  arm  was 
tied  a  green  calico  banner ;  and  in  my  hand  was  still 
clutched  that  listless  and  haggard  bouquet. 

It  was  too  fantastic.  I  had  to  yield  and  join  the 
shouts  of  delighted  laughter;  when  suddenly  in  the 
midst  of  the  joyous  uproar  I  caught  sight,  in  the 
glass  —  beyond  that  mad,  disreputable  caricature 
of  me  —  of  Francis  Garnett  Randolph's  clear  face, 
looking  with  alien  eyes,  pained  and  disapproving. 

And  the  laugh  was  struck  from  my  lips,  my  face 
burned,  my  eyes  stung.  With  the  shamed,  hurt 
feeling  of  a  petted  child  disporting  itself  for  the 
diversion  of  doting  friends,  and  suddenly  confronted 
by  a  schoolmaster,  "  I  am  tired,"  I  said,  shortly. 


«$»     St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  Morning  «$»   95 

"  I'm  sorry  to  miss  you  all,  but  I  have  walked  some- 
thing less  than  ninety  miles  since  lunch  time.  I 
think  I  will  go  to  bed." 

And  go  I  did,  buoyed  up  and  encouraged  thereto 
by  the  sight  of  very  genuine  disappointment  in  that 
stern  face. 

Ever  since  the  first  outburst  of  laughter  which 
greeted  my  appearance,  the  baby  had  been  wailing, 
in  a  fitful,  vagrant  way,  "  Po'  Tarry !  Po'  Tarry ! 
Oh  —  oh  —  po'  'bused  Tarry !  " 

Now,  as  I  reached  the  door,  he  burst  into  such 
thrilling  grief  as  secured  immediate  attention.  I 
went  back  for  my  one  defender  —  nothing  less  would 
content  him. 

"  'Ey  all  mean  —  mean  —  to  my  Tarry,"  he 
mourned,  as  he  rode  out  of  the  room  on  my  arm. 
And  his  little  wet,  sobbing  lips  against  my  cheek, 
as  he  clutched  me  close,  repeating,  "  I  love  oo  —  I 
love  oo  —  tight  —  tight  —  tight !  "  gave  me  the  one 
comfort  we  can  ever  receive  from  any  human  source 
—  expressed  love  —  the  comfort  which  it  is  so  usual 
a  cruelty  to  withhold. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

"  The   Eaters   and   the   Eaten  ' 

"  Woo't  drink  up  eisel  ?     Eat  a  crocodile  ?  " 

IT  was  less  than  a  week  after  this  episode  of  the 
St.  Patrick's  Day  parade  that,  in  the  ardent  prosecu- 
tion of  a  new  plan  for  obtaining  "  material."  I 
had  gone  through  some  pretty  harrowing  experi- 
ences at  noon  one  day,  and  later,  had  carried  some 
little  sense  of  weariness  and  distaste  —  along  with 
a  sore  heart  —  over  to  the  park. 

It  was  an  April  day,  dropped  into  the  latter  part  of 
March  —  bright,  soft,  spring-like;  a  half-holiday, 
too,  and  the  toilers  were  abroad.  I  strolled  with 
nurse  maids  and  their  charges,  servant  girls  and  their 
beaux,  and  working  people  generally,  and  thought 
of  my  friend  Tennyson  when,  at  Coventry,  he  "hung 
with  grooms  and  porters  on  the  bridge." 

As  I  mused,  a  voice  spoke  suddenly,  close  beside 
me.  It  was  a  voice  choked  and  hoarse  with  much 
weeping,  and  glancing  around  I  saw  two  —  servant 
girls  from  their  appearances  —  leaning  upon  the 
rail  near  me.  The  older  and  plainer,  whose  face  was 
red  and  her  eyes  swollen,  was  the  speaker. 

"  He  treated  me  shameful,"  she  sobbed.  "  I 
give  'im  the  money  to  get  the  license  —  he  didn't 
have  a  dollar,  not  a  dollar  —  an'  he's  got  a  license 
an'  married  that  O'Shaughnessy  huzzy !  " 

96 


<&      "The  Eaters  and  the  Eaten"    <&    97 

"  Ai !  ai !  "  cried  my  heart.  "  Tis  the  same  theme ! 
In  words  of  one  syllable,  here.  The  bliss  of  requited 
affection — the  pangs  of  misprized  love!  Didst  think 
to  travel  far  and  leave  it  behind?  To  the  Barcan 
desert,  then,  or  those  extensive  woods  where  rolls 
the  Oregon!  For  where  people  are,  there  is  this 
chord  for  ever  trembling.  Proud  and  lowly,  noble 
and  simple,  all  are  laid  under  tribute  first  or  last." 

"  There  must  be,"  I  answered,  "  if  He  who  made 
our  frame  indeed  is  just,  some  compensation  for 
these  things.  Poor  Maria  and  the  others  will  find 
it  hereafter.  'Tis  late,  and  I  have  some  blocks  to 
travel.  I  will  e'en  go  home,  leaving  these  matters 
to  Him,  and  partake  of  that  meal  which  my  Brook- 
lyn boarding  people  used  sometimes  to  call  dinner, 
and  sometimes  supper." 

Rising  to  go,  I  came  face  to  face  with  Francis 
Garnett  Randolph.  He  put  out  a  hand  and  spoke, 
with  a  little  catch  in  his  voice,  as  though  he  might 
have  been  walking  fast.  "  It  is  you,  then.  Don't 
go.  Sit  down  again.  I  never  get  a  word  nor  a 
glance  of  yours  which  I  can  really  call  my  own  at 
the  office." 

I  sat  down  obedient.  Now  was  the  explanation 
coming. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  as  he  seated  himself  upon  the 
bench  beside  me,  "  this  is  what  I  have  been  dreaming 
of  for  a  month."  He  looked  me  over  jealously. 
'  The  sight  of  you  does  my  eyes  good.  And  so, 
DeWitt  tells  me,  you've  been  '  succeeding  in  jour- 
nalism.' ' 

He  spoke  as  though  he  did  not  see  me  almost 
daily.  He  intended,  evidently,  that  those  meetings 
should  not  count.  Well,  I  certainly  could  think  as 


The  Last  Word 


little  of  them  as  he  seemed  to!  "  Mr.  DeWitt  is  all 
that  is  kind,"  I  returned,  quietly. 

He  lifted  that  aggressive  chin  a  bit.  "  DeWitt 
is  only  the  mouthpiece  of  the  office,  you  know,"  he 
explained.  "  And  the  office  is  the  mouthpiece  of  the 
public.  You  have  been  doing  some  wonderful 
work." 

He  had  (who  might  have  commanded)  stooped 
to  flatter  most  subtly.  The  mother  may  forget  the 
babe;  likewise  the  bridegroom  may  be  taken  with 
a  failing  memory,  in  regard  to  the  bride.  As  for 
the  monarch's  affection  for  his  crown,  it's  no  com- 
parison to  the  soft  side  a  writing  person  has  for 
commendation  of  his  work.  I  melted  directly,  and 
well-nigh  forgot  that  I  had  any  grievance  —  that 
all  this  talk  contained  nothing  germane  to  accepting 
introductions  to  people  whom  you  already  know. 

"  And  so  my  little  Western  friend  is  a  successful 
woman  —  a  journalist,"  he  went  on,  with  a  note  of 
regret  in  his  voice.  "  Tell  me  how  the  thing  is 
done." 

"  Why,  I  just  went  around  to  queer  places  and 
then  described  'em.  New  York  is  full  of  queer 
places." 

"  Yes,  to  some  people.  What  places,  for  in- 
stance? "  and  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  my  face  with  their 
intense,  earnest  regard. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  I  thought  it  would  be  a 
bright  idea  to  go  and  eat  lunches  around  at  snuffy- 
looking  places  where  there  are  cards  all  about  with 
such  legends  on  them  as  so-and-so  only  ten  cents; 
and  such-and-such  only  twenty  cents." 

"  But  it  wouldn't  be  bright  to  eat  anything,"  in- 
terjected my  listener,  with  a  true  man's  horror  of 
gastronomic  experiments. 


«$»      "  The  Eaters  and  the  Eaten "    «$»    99 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  rejoined,  serenely,  "  to  eat,  of 
course ;  and  to  eat  only  these  '  only  '  dishes.  That 
is  my  notion  of  the  way  to  get  a  practical  working 
idea  how  impecunious  people  live." 

Frank  shuddered.  "  To  think  of  you  —  with 
your  fine,  sensitive  appreciation  of  beauty  and  fit- 
ness —  dragging  about  through  such  places  as  that 
—  to  '  make  copy ! ' 

I  saw  that  he  was  genuinely  distressed.  "  Let 
me  tell  you  about  it,"  I  urged.  "  You  can't  imagine 
how  infinitely  funny  it  was." 

"  Oh,  I've  eaten  in  all  sorts  of  places,"  he  said, 
carelessly;  "and  gone  through  all  those  disagreeable 
experiences.  But  for  a  little  tender  flower  of  human- 
ity —  it  makes  my  blood  boil.  There  ought  to  be 
some  one  to  take  care  of  you,  and  keep  you  out  of 
such  hardship." 

I  smiled  a  furtive  smile  over  the  "  tender  flower," 
and  after  a  meditative  pause  began,  "  It  was  poor 
old  Mr.  Macbeth,  I  believe,  who  said,  when  he  had 
murdered  Duncan,  procured  the  killing  of  a  large 
and  varied  assortment  of  innocent  persons,  and  set 
on  innumerable  deeds  of  bloody  violence,  '  I  have 
supped  full  with  horrors ! '  But  I  am  bound  to 
think,  with  all  deference  to  the  man's  energy  and 
capacity,  that  either  I  have  supped  fuller,  or  my 
horrors  were  more  horrible  than  his,  or  he'd  never 
have  left  the  sleep-walking  exclusively  to  Mrs.  Mac." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  pursuing  this  extraor- 
dinary plan?  "  inquired  Frank,  suddenly,  and  I  real- 
ised that  he  suspected  I  was  hungry. 

"  You'd  be  slow  to  believe  it,"  I  replied,  "  but  I 
have  stuck  to  this  thing  three  days." 

Frank  looked  at  his  watch,  evidently  to  see  if  we 


ioo         «£»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

were  within  respectable  distance  of  any  meal  to 
which  he  might  invite  me. 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  so  bad,  I  should  have  given 
it  up  after  the  first  trial,"  I  pursued;  "but  it  was 
so  unexpectedly  dreadful  that  it  became  serious,  and 
aroused  in  me  the  earnest  enthusiasm  of  fight.  The 
'  what  man  dare  I  dare '  spirit  entered  into  me." 

"  What  were  you  living  on  all  this  time?  "  came 
in  troubled  tones  from  my  hearer. 

"  Well,  at  the  last  place  —  about  an  hour  ago," 
I  answered,  reminiseently,  "  I  ordered  oyster  pie, 

*  only  fifteen  cents,'  mackintosh  —  or  macrame,  or 
marabout  —  steak,  with  mushrooms,  '  only  twenty 
cents ; '   country  sausages  ( I  afterward  decided  that 
they  had  left  the  country  for  the  country's  good), 

*  only  ten  cents,'  —  and  —  oh,  a  lot  of  such  things." 

"  You  poor  baby,"  murmured  Frank,  with  a  melt- 
ing tenderness  that  was  only  half  jesting.  "  Did  you 
know  how  I  pitied  you  that  day  on  the  train  for  your 
'  tea  and  muffin  '  buffet  luncheon  ?  They  had  broiled 
squirrels  at  that  railroad  hotel  where  I  ate  lunch; 
and  I  was  greatly  minded  to  wrap  one  in  a  napkin 
and  take  it  to  you.  When  I  got  back  and  saw  you 
with  that  bowl  of  deadly  tea  before  you  I  was  sorry 
I  hadn't." 

I  sighed  as  I  thought  of  that  comparatively  drink- 
able fluid.  "  This  tea  that  I  got  with  my  lunches 
here  was  awful  indeed,"  I  returned.  "  It  offered 
mingled  suggestions  of  all  the  camomile,  sassafras, 
and  catnip  decoctions  of  my  infant  years,  but  it  al- 
ways had  the  added  blandness  of  dishwater  to  soften 
it  and  make  it  palatable." 

"  And  yet  you  always  ordered  it,"  hazarded 
Frank.  "  You  know  my  comment  that  day.  A 


«•»      "The  Eaters  and  the  Eaten"  ^    101 

lady  will  always  order  tea.  It's  one  of  her  articles 
of  faith  that  a  cup  of  tea  is  the  proper  thing.  She'd 
generally  as  soon  break  one  of  the  commandments 
as  omit  it." 

"  Well,  I  tried  the  cocoa  and  chocolate,"  I  admit- 
ted, "  but  I  was  afraid  of  them.  They  sat  and 
looked  at  me  after  I  had  ordered  them,  until  I  gave 
it  up  and  went  away.  If  all  the  things  could  be  in 
the  tea  that  seemed  to  be  there,  what  villainy  might 
not  lie  perdu  under  those  opaque,  mulatto  counte- 
nances? What  crime,  madness,  and  death  might 
not  lurk  in  those  mysterious  and  unfathomable 
depths?" 

"And  all  this  time  what  were  you  eating?"  in- 
quired Frank,  rather  sternly.  "  I  remember  those 
places  with  their  artificial  stone  gingerbread  that 
stays  on  the  table  all  the  time.  Yes,  I  know  "  — 
as  I  would  have  interrupted  him  —  "  and  a  curious 
interesting  petrifaction,  which  they  call  cake,  sitting 
beside  the  Portland  cement  cookies  —  but  what  did 
you  eat?  " 

"  Never  mind  the  eating,"  I  said.  "  Let's  talk- 
about  what  I  couldn't  eat.  Oh,  you  should  have 
seen  the  oyster  that  was  the  wicked  genius  of  that 
oyster  pie!  He  sat  on  top,  surrounded  by  pale, 
startled  gravy  (below  deck  were  things  unspeak- 
able). His  viciousness  was  the  repulsive  depravity 
of  the  old.  He  lacked  whatever  excuse  is  offered 
by  youth  and  inexperience.  He  was  tough,  he  was 
dissolute,  incorrigible,  invulnerable !  He  was  not  to 
be  penetrated  by  kindness,  nor  by  any  of  the  utensils 
furnished.  I.  felt  it  an  injury  to  my  moral  nature 
ever  to  have  known  him;  and  I  asked  the  waiter 
timidly  to  take  him  away,  and  bring  me  one  of 


IO2         «f»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

those  enormous  wedges  of  pumpkin  pie,  '  only  five 
cents.'  " 

"I  thought  you  never  ate  pie?"  said  Frank, 
quickly.  He  had  a  curious  way  of  finding  out  and 
treasuring  up  all  one's  little  personal  peculiarities. 
When  he  was  sweet,  one  was  sure  he  did  it  for  love, 
and  when  —  well  —  at  other  times,  one  supposed 
that  he  was  keeping  reprehending  account  of  one's 
faults. 

"  No,"  I  agreed,  "  I  never  eat  pie;  but  I  under- 
stood that  it  was  the  mainest  dish  with  the  folks  I 
was  investigating,  so  pie  it  must  be." 

"  Just  over  here  is  a  nice  place,"  began  Frank  — 
"  you  must  be  hungry  if  you  lunched  on  a  piece  of 
pie." 

"  No,  no,  hear  me  out,"  I  protested.  "  It  is  a 
humiliating  record  for  one  who  has  been  glad  to 
share  the  hospitality  of  the  fortuitous  cow-camp  or 
the  chance-met  chuck-wagon,  all  through  the  West 
Texas  cattle  country,  and  it  runneth  thus :  The  tea 
was  the  one  thing  I  really  disposed  of ;  between  me 
and  the  country  sausage  it  was  a  draw;  also  with 
the  macadam  steak  and  the  fireproof  mushrooms 
it  was  about  an  even  thing.  The  depraved  and  dis- 
reputable oyster  loafing  on  the  hurricane  deck  of  the 
pie  named  for  him  —  well,  he  routed  me  after  a 
desperate  struggle.  The  cocoa  and  chocolate  stood 
me  off;  they  slew  me  by  the  look,  like  cockatrices. 
And  before  the  size  and  solid  resistance  of  those 
vast  wedges  of  pie,  I  simply  melted  away  and  drifted 
out  into  the  street." 

"  And  so,"  laughed  Frank,  "  if  starvation  has 
brought  you  to  terms,  you  —  " 

"  No,  it  wasn't  starvation,"  I  interrupted,  "  if  you 


<&      "The  Eaters  and  the  Eaten"  «*»   103 

will  believe  me,  it  was  neither  the  things  I  ate  nor 
those  I  couldn't  eat  that  have  humbled  my 
proud  heart,  and  broken  and  trampled  upon  my 
free  spirit.  It  was  the  harshness  of  the  waiters." 

"  What?  "  inquired  Frank,  with  startling  sudden- 
ness. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  pursued,  calmly,  "  these  men  were 
positively  unkind  —  they  were  brutal." 

"They  were  brutal  to  you?"  echoed  Frank. 
"Do  you  really  mean  that  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it.  The  last  one  was  the 
worst.  He  came  along  the  moment  I  was  seated, 
thrust  the  inflexible  and  serrated  corner  of  a  mala- 
rial-looking napkin  into  my  near  eye,  and  while  I  was 
wiping  away  the  tears  I  could  not  hide,  bawled  out 
in  a  loud,  insulting  tone,  '  Y'  go'n'  t'  order  ?  '  He 
suggested  fried  oysters,  and  a  thing  with  a  French 
name  that  sounded,  as  he  pronounced  it,  very  pro- 
fane, and  made  the  lady  across  from  me  jump; 
though  now  that  I  think  of  it,  he  had  just  intro- 
duced the  napkin  corner  into  her  eye." 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  me,"  began  Frank,  "  that 
you  will  not  go  alone  any  more  to  such  places.  I 
must  be  allowed  to  go  with  you  and  look  after  you." 

"  Nice  copy  I  should  get  in  that  way!  Why,  any 
of  them  would  be  afraid  of  you,  and  wouldn't  do  a 
thing  worth  repeating.  Now  this  one  sneered  at 
every  '  only '  dish  I  ordered  in  a  way  that  would 
have  made  Pooh  Bah  seem  a  jolly,  harum-scarum 
democratic  dog.  I  never  saw  such  sneering  in  my 
life.  Honestly,  it  was  like  some  sort  of  professional 
or  artistic  work.  I  think  I  may  say  he  snorted. 
He  treated  everybody  else  with  the  same  savage  con- 
tempt, and  not  a  soul  ventured  to  so  much  as  look 
a  protest." 


The  Last  Word 


"  Even  a  waiter  in  a  cheap  restaurant  ought  to 
know  a  lady.  He  should  have  had  a  lesson  for 
classing  you  with  the  people  he  abuses  daily." 

"  I  was  afraid  to  explain  that  I  was  '  there  for 
a  purpose,'  and  endured  his  contumely  in  silence. 
He  resented  my  not  talking  more,  and  giving  him 
opportunity  to  vent  sarcasms  upon  me  (he  could 
riot  understand  it;  wasn't  I  a  woman?),  and  the  last 
thing  he  did  was  —  under  cover  of  his  office  —  to 
skilfully  jerk  the  chair  from  beneath  me,  just  before 
I  rose." 

"  This  is  past  a  joke,"  remonstrated  Frank.  "  I 
want  your  promise.  You  see,  don't  you?  that  you 
need  me  to  take  care  of  you." 

"  No,  I  think  I  managed  admirably,"  I  returned. 
"  I  haven't  ridden  Texas  ponies,  and  walked,  and 
ran,  and  climbed,  and  rowed,  and  swam,  and  chased 
bears  and  cats  (reversed  order,  you  know)  for  noth- 
ing. I  was  too  quick  for  him.  I  got  up  like  the 
price  of  eggs  near  Christmas.  He  went  back  with 
the  disencumbered  chair  in  his  hand,  into  a  very 
fluid  dinner  that  was  being  brought  in  to  a  very  fat 
old  man  ahead  of  me.  It  consisted  of  a  big  bowl 
of  hot  soup,  and  a  big  glass  of  cold  beer  ;  and  while 
he  stood,  blind  and  helpless  for  one  moment,  with 
these  beverages  running  off  every  projection,  I 
said,  feeling  coarse  and  low  and  common  all  over 
(three  days  of  this  would  do  for  you,  too),  '  I  guess 
not/  and  then  walked  out." 

Frank  rose,  and  fixed  his  laughing  eyes  on  me. 
"  Are  you  done  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  responded,  somewhat  taken  aback, 
"  that's  all." 

"  Well,  let  me  inform  you  that  I  don't  believe  one 


«*»      "The  Eaters  and  the  Eaten"  «$»   105 

word  of  it.  Let's  see  how  right  I  am.  Over  in  a 
pretty  room  in  the  corner  of  that  tall  building  the 
Seven  Black  Slaves  wait  to  spread  the  feast  —  for 
you  and  me.  Now,  Mademoiselle  Scheherezade,  if 
(as  I  have  said)  this  was  a  tale  invented  to  entertain 
—  and  torment  —  me,  you  will  refuse,  in  your  calm 
way,  to  go  and  share  the  banquet.  But  if  this  har- 
rowing recital  was  really  a  true  one,  starvation  will 
drive  you  to  say  yes  —  which  is  it?  "  And  he  stood 
studying  my  countenance  with  what  seemed  to  me 
a  disproportionately  intense  scrutiny  and  challenge. 

"  Well,"  I  returned,  slowly,  "  the  tale  is  all  true 
-just  a  plain,  honest  report.  Also,  I  am  hungry, 
and  "  —  I  hesitated,  glanced  up  again  at  his  smil- 
ing face,  then  finished  —  "  and  I  think  it  would  be 
lovely  to  run  away  and  dine  with  you.  But  it  is  also 
true  that  the  Corcorans  have  invited  civilised  per- 
sons to  come  and  see  me  at  dinner.  I  am  It,  to-night. 
It  lies  upon  me  to  be  there." 

We  walked  out  to  Seventy-fourth  Street.  I 
thought  he  would  have  left  me,  for  one  of  the  down- 
town lines  —  his  apartments  were,  Iknew,  in  Irving 
Place,  at  Gramercy  Park  —  but  he  walked  with  me 
to  our  door. 

As  we  stood  lingering  a  moment,  quite  isolated, 
in  the  vestibule,  he  said,  suddenly,  "  People  ?  " 

I  glanced  about  blankly  an  instant;  then  re- 
membrance enlightened  me.  "  To  dinner  this  even- 
ing, you  mean?"  I  returned.  "Well,  the  vague 
and  stately  toga  drapes  a  single  personality." 

I  found  it  surprising  that  any  feeling  could  have 
put  this  man  so  far  from  his  ordinary  as  to  allow 
him  the  expression  of  curiosity  in  such  a  connection. 
Then  I  glanced  up.  Frank's  face  was  flushed,  the 


io6         «9»         The  Last  Word  •& 

fine  nostril  trembled ;  I  saw,  beneath  his  moustache, 
the  lower  lip  caught  hard  between  the  white  teeth. 

It  came  to  me  —  as  it  always  does  to  a  woman 
at  this  point  —  to  assure  him  promptly  that  the  ex- 
pected guest  was  not  a  man.  We  do  so  long  to  give 
the  sugar-plums  to  the  loved  child  naughty  enough 
to  demand  —  to  even  storm  for  them. 

But  before  I  could  frame  the  words,  he  had  recov- 
ered himself.  He  raised  his  hat,  saying,  "  I  must 
not  be  inconsiderate  —  I  have  already  detained  you 
—  and  you  must  dress." 

I  put  out  my  hand,  which  he  took,  and  clasped 
and  held  it  warmly,  and  then  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

Of  the   Making  of  Books 

"  But  this  you  must  know,  that  as  long  as  they  grow, 

Whatever  change  may  be, 
You  can  never  teach  either  oak  or  beech 
To  be  aught  but  a  greenwood  tree." 

AFTER  this  there  were  two  formal  calls  from  Mr. 
Francis  Garnett  Randolph.  To  the  eye  of  the  casual 
observer  his  visit  would,  in  each  instance,  have  ap- 
peared to  be  addressed  to  the  entire  household  — 
prominently  including  Teddy,  for  Frank  was  as  suc- 
cessful with  children  as  with  the  pure  line.  But  the 
household  assured  me  that  he  had  called  upon  them 
but  once  a  year  before  my  advent,  and  warmly  urged 
me  to  regard  the  honour  of  his  present  social  ac- 
tivity in  this  direction  as  a  legitimate  offering  at 
the  shrine  of  my  attractions. 

Twice  only,  during  the  two  evenings,  did  we  fall 
into  anything  like  personal  conversation.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Corcoran  were  engaged  in  searching  for  a  new 
book  at  one  time,  and  had  responded  to  some  call  of 
Teddy's  at  another;  so  that  for  a  moment  we  two 
sat  upon  one  side  of  the  room,  while  our  lovers  (by 
which  convenient  term  I  designate  Phyllis  and  her 
beau)  occupied  the  other.  There  was  very  little 
said,  each  time,  that  all  the  parlour  full  might  not 
have  heard,  except  that  he  promptly  alluded  to  our 

107 


io8         «f»         The  Last  Word  -$» 

former  meeting,  which  I  then  remembered  he  had 
never  done  in  the  presence  of  the  others. 

"  Are  you  liking  it  here?  "  he  asked  me.  "  Are 
you  homesick  ?  " 

"  Never !  "  I  returned,  stoutly. 

"  You  know  —  do  you  ?  —  that  I  think  you  ought 
to  be  at  home,"  he  went  on.  "  A  woman  like  you 
should  be  tenderly  cared  for,  and  find  her  happiness 
in  making  sunshine  for  others." 

"  I  have  rather  a  hankering  for  sunshine  myself," 
I  observed,  disrespectfully. 

"  And  you   think,   like   Diogenes  —  do   you  ?  - 
that  a  man  is  a  thing  which  keeps  off  the  sunlight." 

"  Who  was  talking  about  a  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  was,"  he  answered,  briefly,  and  turned  to  re- 
ceive the  book  Mr.  Corcoran  had  brought  in. 

The  second  time  that  we  spoke  together,  without 
the  assistance  of  the  others,  he  expressed  a  desire 
for  another  good,  long  talk  with  me.  "  I  am  a  re- 
served man,"  he  said.  "  By  choice  I  am  a  listener 
rather  than  a  talker." 

"  An  uncomplimentary  way  of  explaining  your 
liking  for  conversation  with  me,"  I  laughed. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  objected.  "  It  is  not  the  explana- 
tion at  all.  I  am  as  garrulous  as  an  old  gossip 
with  you.  If  I  am  ever  silent  when  we  are  together 
—  if  you  find  me  a  silent  person,  that  is  —  it  is  not 
for  the  same  reason  that  other  people  do.  With  the 
world  at  large,  I  either  lack  ideas  in  common,  or  I 
am  disinclined  to  expose  my  opinions  to  others. 
With  you,  I  am  sometimes  held  silent  by  the  fear 
that  I  cannot  make  you  see  things  as  I  do." 

He  leaned  a  little  toward  me,  with  the  remem- 
bered bend  of  the  head,  and  lowered  his  voice  to 


«9»        Of  the  Making  of  Books     «9»     109 

those  tones  of  irresistible  sweetness  —  those  tones 
so  unreasonably  moving  and  pleading.  Even  in  the 
moment  of  it,  I  thought  angrily  that  if  he  had  but 
leaned  toward  me  so,  looked  at  me  with  such  eyes 
and  spoken  in  those  tones,  he  might  have  said 
"  twice  two  are  four,"  all  would  have  been  one  to 
me ;  my  treacherous  heart  would  have  flown  to  open 
the  door  to  the  eyes  and  the  voice,  regardless  of 
what  the  voice  said.  With  a  movement,  a  glance,  a 
tone,  he  had  thrust  away  all  the  time  since  our  first 
meeting,  all  my  resentment  and  pain.  With  the 
changeful  eyes  fixed  on  mine,  and  the  voice  at  its 
most  caressing  tone,  he  said : 

"  When  I  look  at  you,  my  heart  is  so  eager,  my 
mind  so  full  of  things  I  want  to  show  you  —  to 
make  you  see  —  and  I  so  fear  and  tremble  lest  I  be 
misunderstood,  that  I  am  sure  it  often  precipitates 
the  very  event  I  dread.  When  you  speak  to  me 
—  reply  to  me  —  I  perceive  that  it  is  so.  But  to 
be  silent  —  to  —  to  withdraw  —  pray  understand 
me  —  help  me  —  I  mean  to  assure  you  that  I  realise 
how  a  negative  course  may  be  more  distasteful,  more 
wounding  to  you  than  —  than  almost  anything  else." 

I  saw  his  trouble.  It  came  upon  me  like  a  flash 
of  illumination  that  his  position,  to  a  man  of  such 
pride  —  such  arrogant  pride  and  self-will  —  so  tied 
up  in  prejudice  and  conservatism  and  preconceived 
ideas  of  how  things  ought  to  be,  and  with  all  the 
determination  to  make  them  be  that  way,  if  they 
had  the  bad  taste  not  to  do  it  themselves  —  to  such 
a  man,  Frank's  position  toward  me  —  a  position 
into  which  he  had  been  dragged,  like  myself,  by 
a  mere  cloudburst  of  ungovernable  emotion  —  was 
certainly  trying.  Also,  he  was  the  man;  it  was  he 


no         «9»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

who  must  take  any  initiative ;  all  —  all  —  was  ex- 
pected of  him  —  who  knew  not  his  own  heart, 
his  intentions  or  wishes  in  the  matter.  And  he 
might  wound  me  by  too  great  deliberation,  or  offend 
me  by  assuming  too  much. 

I  turned  to  him,  smiling,  and  said,  "  I  see  — 
I  understand.  And  we  have  gotten  the  cart  so  be- 
fore the  horse,  that  now  it  is  pretty  hard  to  straighten 
things  out,  or  do  anything  naturally  or  simply. 
We've  focussed  a  microscope  on  anything  we  may 
say  or  do  now,  haven't  we  ?  —  given  a  frightful 
size  and  significance  to  it  ?  " 

Frank's  face  had  looked  relieved,  glad,  then  a 
trifle  uneasy.  Now  he  broke  in,  "  Oh,  you  mustn't 
think  for  a  moment  —  " 

"  Wait!  "  I  interrupted,  in  turn.  "  I  have  it  now. 
Do  you  like  me?  Do  you  believe  you  would  find 
interest  in  me,  just  as  in  other  companionable  peo- 
ple to  whom  you  are  attracted  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  know  —  "he  began,  with  low-voiced 
vehemence,  but  I  went  on. 

"  Well,  then,  why  can  we  not  give  ourselves  a 
reasonable  chance?  Why  not  take  away  the  micro- 
scope, and  begin  again  like  rational  people  who  see 
in  each  other  a  possible  valued  friend,  and  —  " 

Here  Teddy  came  swarming  up  Mr.  Randolph, 
and  over  this  frizzly  head  I  received  a  glance  and 
smile  of  comprehension,  answer,  and  assurance. 

It  was  during  this  call  of  his  that  I  had  told  Frank 
I  did  much  of  my  work  forenoons  in  the  Astor 
library.  I  was  writing  a  little  story  of  the  Georgia 
coast  and  the  sea  islands,  in  1740,  just  after  the 
settlement  there  by  Oglethorpe.  The  morning  after, 
I  was  in  the  library,  deep  in  a  collection  of  pamphlets 


«$»        Of  the  Making  of  Books     <9»     1 1 1 

—  quaint  old  things  printed  with  spidery  type  and 
long  ss  —  letters,  reports,  and  diaries  of  Wesley. 
Whitefield,  and  of  Oglethorpe  himself.  They  illu- 
minated the  points  of  my  story,  and  I  was  eagerly 
absorbed  in  them,  when  a  voice  said  to  me,  in  a 
murmur  just  above  a  whisper  —  and  it  reverberated 
along  the  remotest  confines  of  consciousness  like  a 
trumpet  —  "  Good  morning !  " 

As  though  that  voice  had  called  it  there,  the  blood 
rushed  to  my  face.  I  smiled,  and  whispered  back, 
"  Good  morning." 

Then  he  offered  me  explanations  so  voluble  and 
elaborate  of  his  presence  there  at  that  hour  that  I 
finally  stopped  him. 

"  You  know  there  would  be  no  actual  affront  in 
it,"  I  said,  mildly,  "  if  you  had  come  with  the  hope 
of  seeing  me." 

He  looked  offended,  and  I  saw  he  was  in  one  of 
what  I  called  his  Grand  Lama  moods.  Then  he 
glanced  again  at  me,  his  face  changed,  with  that 
quick,  lovely  change  I  knew  so  well,  he  rose,  and 
murmuring,  "  Come  out  here  where  we  can  talk," 
drew  me  with  a  sort  of  gentle  imperiousness  to  a 
remote  and  ill-lighted  alcove. 

When  we  were  seated,  he  began,  looking  me  over 
narrowly  and  jealously,  "  I  will  not  be  offended ; 
you  shall  not  offend  me.  You  are  irritable  because, 
you  are  unhappy.  I  warned  you  this  life  would 
not  suit  you." 

"  Go  right  ahead  and  forgive  me  —  do!  "  I  urged. 
"  It  would  be  the  last  straw." 

But  he  only  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "  I  have 
a  purpose,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  not  to  be  turned 
from  it.  Please  be  sweet  and  reasonable." 


112          «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

"I  will,"  I  agreed,  every  fibre  of  my  being. re- 
laxing beneath  the  tone,  the  smile,  and  the  kind 
bearing. 

"  That  is  good,"  he  said,  and  again  smiled.  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  seriously,  may  I  ?  "  and  he 
seated  himself  in  front  of  me. 

"  That  sounds  rather  ominous,"  I  hesitated. 
"  Don't  people  always  say  that  when  something 
very  unpleasant  is  coming?" 

"  No,  no,"  he  reassured.  "  It  is  about  your  work. 
You  —  " 

I  half  rose,  startled,  my  face  burning  now  pain- 
fully, my  mind  suddenly  flooded  with  vague,  galling 
surmise. 

"  The  work !  "  I  cried.     "  It  —  it  —  doesn't  it  - 
does  Mr.  DeWitt  —  " 

"  Oh,  pray  pardon  me !  "  he  urged  eagerly,  taking 
my  hands,  and  pushing  me  gently  back  into  my 
chair.  "  You  must  not  be  hasty ;  let  me  finish. 
What  I  wished  to  say  is  that  you  are  doing  bril- 
liant, magnificent  work  now  —  but  can  you  keep 
it  up?  Are  you  not  wearing  yourself  out  —  work- 
ing out  your  vein?  It  is  of  you  I  am  thinking,  not 
of  DeWitt  nor  the  office.  Your  work  is  only  too 
good  for  such  ephemeral  uses.  And  isn't  it  costing 
you  too  much  ?  " 

There  was  Frank.  I  was  an  irresponsible  crea- 
ture, unable  to  take  care  of  myself.  "  Oh,  no,"  I 
said,  "  you  know  I  adore  work.  I  glory  in  it.  It 
does  me  good  always.  It  makes  me  happy  —  it 
makes  me  well  —  when  nothing  else  can." 

"And  you  think  I  am  jealous  of  your  work?" 
(I  had  not  said  so.)  "  Well,  perhaps  I  am.  I  am 
of  a  jealous  disposition,  and  it  comes  out  where  I 


«®»        Of  the  Making  of  Books     «$»     113 

feel  strongly.  But  maybe  you  need  the  work  to  keep 
your  mind  from  getting  restless ;  only  —  it  —  ought 
to  be  under  somebody's  guidance." 

"Why?  "  I  asked,  with  rising  resentment.  "Why 
should  my  work  be  planned  by  another,  any  more 
than  yours  ?  —  and  you  know  you  wouldn't  stand 
it  a  minute." 

"  I  do  not  mean  in  the  planning  or  conception 
of  the  work.  Your  own  genius  is  your  best  guide 
there.  But  in  everything  else,  you  need  a  —  " 

"I  need  a  boss,  do  I?"  I  retorted.  "Well,  I 
haven't  found  one  yet." 

Mr  Francis  Garnett  Randolph  hated  to  hear  a 
"  lady  "  use  slang.  Its  use,  with  many  other  priv- 
ileges, was  reserved  in  his  mind  for  the  stronger 
half  of  creation.  He  flinched  now  at  the  word 
"  boss." 

"  You  need  to  love  and  to  be  loved  deeply,"  he 
said,  after  a  long  pause,  in  the  fullest  tones  of  that 
great,  wooing  voice,  and  bending  upon  me  a  look 
of  sudden  tenderness.  "  It  is  in  loving"  that  a  true 
woman's  strength  lies."  The  heart  within  me  — 
the  weak,  foolish  heart  —  sprang  to  answer  him. 
But  I  knew  better.  I  shrank  back  from  the  lure 
of  tone  and  glance,  and  put  up  the  protesting  hand 
of  an  accusation,  with  — 

"  Nobody  but  you  calls  me  weak ! " 

"  Nor  do  I  call  you  so.  You  are  restless,  unsat- 
isfied ;  and  you  always  will  be  so  till  your  heart 
finds  peace,"  he  answered,  gravely,  and  with  the 
undiminished  sweetness  that  so  daunted  me.  When 
Frank  chose  to  be  sweet,  he  was  to  me  terrible  as 
an  army  with  banners. 

Put  to  my  utmost  defence,  "  Please."  I  said,  pee- 
vishly, "  let's  talk  of  something  sensible." 


H4         *•>         The  Last  Word  «9» 

Frank's  haughty  spirit  was  up  in  arms  instantly. 
"  I  came  to  talk  of  something  sensible  this  morn- 
ing," he  began. 

"  Oh,  you  did  come  to  see  me,  then  ?  "  I  observed. 

"  I  did.  I  want  to  discuss  a  plan  for  a  book. 
The  house  is  getting  out  two ;  one  dealing  with  the 
Eastern  part  of  the  country,  the  other  with  Califor- 
nia and  the  far  West.  I  think  there  should  be  a 
third,  exploiting  what  we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling 
the  Middle  West  —  the  centre." 

"  Yes,"  I  assented,  vaguely.  It  was  all  Greek  to 
me. 

"  We  have  contracted  with  first-class  people  for 
these  Eastern  and  Western  books.  And  now  this 
Middle  West  volume  —  there  is  nobody  I  know 
who  could  do  that  so  well  as  yourself." 

"  Oh !  "  I  groaned.  "  A  whole  great  big  book ! 
I  should  hate  the  thought  of  it.  I  should  loathe 
it.  I  should  feel  like  a  slave  chained  to  an  oar  in  a 
galley." 

But  this  man  could  be  obtuse,  or  even  forgiving, 
when  he  had  a  point  to  make.  "  It  would  suit  your 
style  exactly,"  he  went  on.  "  I  have  planned  a 
hundred  pictures  for  it.  Rouse,  Bushrod  Floyd, 
and  Max  Ulrich  are  to  illustrate  the  other  two 
books;  but  I  am  deeply  interested  in  this  one.  I 
want  you  to  see  my  sketches  for  the  pictures." 

I  groaned  again.  He  had  not  made  a  book  illus- 
tration for  years.  His  pictures  for  that  purpose 
were  simply  not  to  be  had.  This  enormous  con- 
descension on  his  part  was  portentous. 

I  began  at  the  wrong  end  of  things,  with,  "  I 
should  make  a  mess  of  it.  The  very  thought  that 
there  was  a  whole  book  to  be  written,  and  that  it  had 


«$»        Of  the  Making  of  Books     <&     115 

to  be  written  in  a  certain  way,  would  make  me  frantic 
to  write  it  some  other  way  —  or  to  put  it  all  into 
a  storiette  —  an  item.  You  surely  know,  by  this 
time,  that  a  barrier  —  a  fence  —  just  presents  itself 
to  me  as  something  to  be  gone  over,  and  gone  over 
quick." 

I  saw  in  his  face  that  he  considered  this  unfemi- 
nine,  unwomanly,  undesirable.  "  You  do  yourself  in- 
justice," he  declared.  "  I  am  sure  you  are  one  of  the 
most  versatile  creatures  I  have  ever  seen.  You  can 
do  anything  you  want  to  do." 

I  longed  to  say  frankly  that  I  did  not  want  to 
do  this  thing;  but  somehow  my  tongue  was  tied. 
Already  that  domineering  spirit  of  his,  which  held 
in  reserve  so  much  sweetness  and  tenderness,  ruled 
me  utterly ;  or  rather,  it  ruled  me  when  I  was  with 
him. 

"  Take  a  little  time  to  think  about  it,"  he  urged. 
"  I  have  been  over  that  ground  just  recently.  That 
is  what  I  was  about  when  I  found  you,"  and  his 
eyes  dwelt  upon  me  for  a  disturbing  instant.  "  Of 
course  I  am  not  a  writer.  I  should  only  presume 
to  offer  my  suggestions  as  a  help.  You  know  what 
I  think  of  your  work.  You  know  what  they  all 
think  at  the  office.  I  do  not  feel  that  I  dare  touch 
it;  but  whatever  facts  I  can  give  you  are  at  your 
service." 

For  some  reason,  this  explanation  alleviated  the 
prospect  considerably.  "  You'd  take  some  of  the 
responsibility,  would  you  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  take  it  all,"  he  answered, 
promptly.  "  You'll  do  the  thing  magnificently.  I 
shall  be  proud  to  have  my  pictures  associated  with 
your  text." 


n6         <Q>         The  Last  Word  «$» 

This  was,  as  Mr.  Weller  would  have  said, 
"  Comin'  it  werry  strong." 

"  I  have  a  little  studio,"  he  went  on.  "  It  is  the 
room  I  took  when  I  first  came  to  New  York.  I  went 
through  some  pretty  tight  places  in  that  little  studio, 
and  my  good  fortune  found  me  there.  I  do  my  work 
now,  of  course,  mostly  at  the  office,  but  I  have  never 
been  able  to  give  up  the  room.  It  stands,  little 
changed  from  what  it  was  three  years  ago.  Once 
in  awhile  it  is  used  by  some  of  the  others,  for  some 
special  work.  When  we  have  an  artist  here  from 
a  distance  doing  something  for  us,  we  put  him  —  or 
her  —  there.  It  is  really  mine.  I  do  what  very  rare 
occasional  illustrating  I  do  there.  But  it  has  come 
to  be  a  sort  of  community  possession  at  the  office. 
I  have  been  making  these  illustrations  for  your 
book  down  there.  I  wish  you  would  come  with  me 
and  see  it." 

The  words,  "  Your  bock,"  rather  took  my  breath 
away.  They  seemed  to  fasten  the  chains  on  me. 
"  Oh,  please  do  not  be  so  sure  I  shall  write  it,"  I 
pleaded.  "  You  will  be  so  much  the  angrier  when 
I  do  not." 

As  usual,  I  had  offended  when  I  meant  to 
avert  a  quarrel.  He  turned  his  head  away,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window.  "  I  have  an  unfortu- 
nate temper,"  he  said,  finally,  in  that  tone  which 
means  "  I  haven't  any  temper  at  all ;  I  am  a  mar- 
tyred angel,  and  it  is  you  who  are  hard  to  get  along 
with." 

"  Think  it  over,"  he  repeated.  "  You  could  bring 
your  manuscript  there,  and  work  to  the  pictures,  as 
I  also  could  get  illustrative  ideas  from  your  text. 
The  long  hours  passed  so  together  would  be  bits  of 


«$»        Of  the  Making  of  Books     «$»     117 

heaven  to  me,  —  but  perhaps  you  would  rather  have 
De Witt's  directions." 

It  was  unkindly  said.  He  sat  looking  from  the 
window,  with  that  impatient  face  I  had  learned  to 
know  too  well.  The  human  heart  is  a  wayward 
thing.  It  was  exactly  true,  as  he  had  said,  that, 
so  far  as  any  work  was  concerned,  I  greatly  pre- 
ferred to  be  under  Mr.  DeWitt's  guidance.  I  was 
happier  so.  But  dared  I  say  it  ?  Not  for  worlds ! 
My  days  had  already  begun  to  be  good  days  or 
bad  days  according  to  whether  I  saw  Frank  or  not. 
They  were  further  divided  into  days  of  misery  or 
seasons  of  delight  according  as  I  succeeded  in 
pleasing  him  or  not. 

A  sudden  conception  of  what  it  would  be  to  sit 
for  long,  delightful  hours  beside  him,  both  busy, 
silent  or  speaking,  just  as  we  chose,  clutched  at 
my  heart.  I  would  do  it  —  of  course  I  would ! 
What  a  small  matter  it  was,  after  all,  to  please  him 
in  this.  He  thought  he  was  helping  me;  he  meant 
to  be  kind.  I  could  certainly  do  no  less  than  meet 
him  half-way.  And  yet,  as  I  said  "  Yes,"  a  vision 
of  the  heavy,  unlovely  task  before  me,  an  appre- 
ciation of  the  blind  egotism  which  had  thrust  such 
a  task  upon  me,  robbed  the  conclusion  of  any  hap- 
piness. 

Frank  was  elated,  boyishly  gay,  overflowing  with 
tenderness.  "  The  little  studio  has  several  keys, 
my  beloved  partner,"  he  said,  producing  one  and 
putting  it  in  my  hand.  "  The  janitor  could  always 
open  it  for  you,  but  I  wrill  give  you  this,  so  that 
if  you  want  to  go  there  when  I  am  out  of  town,  or 
should  come  first  to  an  appointment,  you  will  feel 
like  an  independent  proprietor.  I  must  tell  you 


n8         ^         The  Last  Word  *> 

that  it  will  be  eminently  correct,  every  way.  Miss 
Salem  (our  heaviest  stockholder,  you  know;  daugh- 
ter of  the  house's  founder)  once  had  Miss  Bucks, 
and  afterward  that  wonderful  Mrs.  Parmalee,  doing 
some  series  of  articles  there  for  the  service  —  under 
my  direction;  and  she  put  in,  for  their  use  in  the 
work,  a  quantity  of  precious  old  files  of  Salem's 
magazine  in  priceless  cases.  And  she  herself  uses 
the  little  studio  sometimes.  This  makes  it  feasible 
for  you  —  as  it  will  be  heavenly  for  me." 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  returned,  smiling  a  little  at  his  care- 
fulness. "  I  hadn't  even  thought  of  this  question." 

"  Besides,"  he  went  on,  gaily,  "  there  will  be  the 
immediate  chaperonage  of  Lemuel,  to  whom  it  shall 
be  my  pleasure  to  present  you.  He  is  an  accom- 
plished chaperon,  but  he  is  yet  finer  as  undiluted 
literary  material.  And  he  shall  be  yours  in  both 
capacities." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

The   Little   Studio 

"  Where  name  of  slave  and  sultan  is  forgot, 
And  peace  to  Mahmoud  on  his  golden  throne." 

THE  little  studio  had  evidently  been  swept  and 
garnished  for  my  coming.  Upon  the  table,  in  a 
long-stemmed,  water-green  vase,  was  one  half- 
opened  blush  rose.  Frank  explained  that  he  put 
it  there  as  a  portrait  of  me. 

The  janitor  came  in  and  out  on  errands;  the 
door  was  set  wide,  and  tenants  of  the  studios  across 
or  beyond  or  beside  stopped  now  and  again  to  fling 
in  a  jest  or  a  welcome.  They  took  me,  as  I  bent 
above  my  work,  for  a  fellow  artist  or  sitter,  and 
usually  included  me  genially  in  their  remarks. 

It  was  the  pleasant  coast  of  Bohemia;  the  land 
breeze  greeted  us  sweetly. 

I  have  mentioned  the  janitor,  but  in  doing  so 
I  have  placed  his  more  inconsiderable  entitlement 
first;  whereas  he  was  Lemuel  first,  and  a  janitor 
afterward.  Lemuel  was  lacking  in  the  matter  of 
an  eye;  yet,  with  the  one  optic  which  accident  had 
spared,  he  saw  more  deeply  into  the  affairs  of  the 
pair  who  had  taken  to  work  in  the  little  studio 
than  any  of  the  two-eyed  persons  about. 

Frank  sat  at  his  drawing-board,  I  at  a  table 
within  reach  of  his  hand.  Though  we  seemed  in 

"9 


I2O         «$»         The  Last  Word 
\  


such  easy  association  with  the  people  who  came 
or  went,  they  had  affairs  and  concerns  of  their  own, 
and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  for  the  most  part 
regarded  us  not.  We  were  spiritually  as  much 
alone  together  as  though  we  were  indeed  upon  the 
desert  island  of  which  Frank  had  talked,  that  day 
on  the  train. 

In  spite  of  the  loathed  work  under  my  ringers,  I 
was  breathing  the  air  of  paradise  —  that  is  to  say, 
the  atmosphere  of  glamour.  I  looked  at  the  people 
passing  the  door,  and  pitied  them.  They  could  not 
sit  by  Frank  and  talk  to  him,  and  have  him  listen  in 
that  wonderful  way,  with  the  ineffable  bend  of  his 
head,  the  lovely  softening  of  those  stern  gray  eyes. 
Poor  people!  I  hoped  Heaven  would  give  them 
something  else  —  not  as  good,  that  could  not  be,  but 
something  which,  in  their  happy  ignorance,  they 
might  think  as  good. 

Lemuel,  dusting  from  chair  legs  imaginary  specks, 
in  the  hope  of  gratuities  which  should  be  more  sub- 
stantial, noted  that  we  spoke  little,  and  bestirred 
himself  for  our  entertainment. 

"  Mebby  you  would  think,  now,  that  I  hain't  never 
went  with  the  gals  none?"  said  he,  selecting  with 
good  judgment  a  subject  in  which  he  plainly  sup- 
posed us  both  to  be  interested.  "  I  reckon,  ez  a  fac', 
I've  went  with  more  gals  in  my  time  'n  ary  un-lame, 
two-eyed  feller  you  could  p'int  out.  Mebby  ye  pay 
'tention  to  me  bein'  lame,  an'  one-eyed,  an'  a  little 
wizzled-up  ol'  crowl?  Huh!  them  things  ain't 
nothin'.  It's  a  way  'at  counts  with  gals  —  a  way  — 
an'  "  (with  a  look  of  abandoned  wickedness)  "  I'm 
the  feller  't's  got  it !  " 

When  Lemuel  was  gone  to  other  studios  and 


«9»  The  Little  Studio        <&>        121 

other  chair  legs,  "How  are  you  getting  on?"  in- 
quired Frank,  and  I  suddenly  became  aware  that 
I  was  sitting  dreaming,  chin  on  hand,  my  pencil 
untouched. 

"  Excellently !  "  I  answered,  with  alacrity. 

"  Maybe  you  would  rather  have  pen  and  ink  ? 
I  think  all  manuscripts  should  be  made  in  ink." 

Now,  I  can  never  produce  copy  except  with  a  pen- 
cil, and  a  pencil  of  one  particular  make  and  brand,  at 
that.  But  I  answered,  airily,  "Oh,  I  could  write  with 
a  burnt  stick." 

"  Does  it  bother  you,  having  me  here  in  the 
room  ?  " 

When  I  really  have  an  inspiration  I  am  apt  to 
double-lock  the  doors  and  pull  furniture  against 
them,  to  come  as  near  being  sole  alone  in  the  world 
as  possible.  While  the  fine  frenzy  is  on  me,  I  do 
not  like  to  remember  that  any  one  else  exists.  But 
at  this  threat  of  withdrawing  the  only  alleviation  of 
my  present  hard  lot,  I  panicked  promptly. 

"  I  could  not  write  at  all  if  you  were  not  there 
with  suggestions  and  plans,"  I  asserted;  and  he 
reached  over  and  patted  the  hand  which  held  the 
pencil. 

"  We  are  doing  famously,  are  we  not,  little  part- 
ner ? "  he  murmured ;  and  for  fifteen  minutes  I 
wrote  furiously  about  the  Middle  West,  things  the 
maddest  ever  penned  —  or  pencilled. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  Frank  rose  and  came  over 
to  look  at  my  work,  as  I  suppposed.  I  hate  having  an 
incomplete  production  seen  at  all;  but  this  was  all 
such  utter  bosh  that  I  was  especially  unwilling. 
I  laid  my  hand  over  the  sheets,  but  he  bent  down 
smilingly  to  take  my  pencil  and  put  it  in  order. 


122         «f»         The  Last  Word  <& 

"How  do  you  like  DeWitt?"  he  inquired,  cas- 
ually. 

My  happy  heart  was  full  of  love  for  all  living 
creatures.  "  Oh,  he  has  been  everything  to  me  in 
my  work,"  I  expanded.  "  So  patient  with  my  blun- 
ders— " 

"  Patient  with  your  blunders !  "  repeated  Frank, 
then  laughed.  "  That  is  noble,  indeed,  of  him. 
Why,  you  could  set  Justin  DeWitt  up  in  brains  a 
dozen  times  over." 

"  I  could  no  more  do  the  work  he  does,"  I  de- 
murred, "  than  I  could  write  tragedies.  He  is  so 
satisfactory,  so  consistent,  so  exact,  so  wonderfully 
clever." 

There  was  a  pause.  My  pencil  had  been  mended 
some  time  Now  it  was  laid  down  upon  the  table  with 
decision.  "  I  am  not  jealous  of  DeWitt,  you  under- 
stand," Frank  announced,  authoritatively.  "  I 
could  not  be  jealous  of  any  one  —  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word.  I  envy  him  the  opportunity  he 
has  of  being  constantly  with  you.  That  is  all." 

I  opened  my  eyes  very  wide  indeed.  "  Constantly 
with  me !  "  I  cried.  "  Why,  I  don't  see  him  for  a 
week  at  a  time,  and  then  only  when  he  gives  me  his 
helpful  suggestions  and  ideas." 

I  reflected  afterward  that  this  was  the  infor- 
mation Frank  wanted,  and  that  it  pleased  him.  At 
the  time,  his  attitude  was  so  nearly  one  of  dignified 
reproof  that  this  seemed  hardly  possible. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  amended,  "  I  envy  him  the 
opportunity  of  helping  you  in  your  work.  Or 
more  properly,  I  grudge  him  your  belief  that  his 
suggestions  are  helpful  —  for  I  am  not  sure  that 
you  wouldn't  be  better  off  without  his  attempts 
at  guidance." 


«^  The  Little  Studio         -^         123 

From  that  first  day  on,  work  upon  the  big  book, 
which  Frank  had  tentatively  christened  "  The  Heart 
of  Our  Country/'  became  a  part  of  my  daily  living. 
With  each  meeting  I  cheated  myself  into  a  transient 
content ;  but  the  whole  matter  was,  after  all,  a  source 
of  suffering.  Stevenson,  in  his  "  Weir  of  Her- 
miston,"  speaks  of  the  schoolmaster  that  there  is  in 
all  men.  Frank  surely  had  more  than  his  share. 
Or  perhaps  I  err ;  I  am  inclined  to  think  sometimes 
that  it  was  owing  to  the  strong  and  unwelcome 
feeling  which  had  possessed  both  of  us  since  our 
first  meeting,  that  he  showed  to  me  so  frequently 
this  unlovable  trait.  Yet  there  were  days,  moods, 
when  he  was  sweetness  itself. 

We  had  got  pretty  well  started  in  our  work; 
I  had  begun  to  confess  reluctantly  that  I  could, 
though  I  detested  it,  do,  and  do  well,  this  writing 
which  Frank  wanted  of  me,  when  I  ran  up  to  the 
studio  one  morning  to  capture  and  confine  with 
pencil  and  paper  a  brilliant  idea  I  had  for  the  book. 

I  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Frank  would  be 
there,  indeed.  I  believed  him  out  of  town;  50  that 
when  I  found  the  door  ajar,  pushed  it  open  and 
went  in,  the  meeting  which  ensued  was  a  glad  sur- 
prise to  us  both. 

He  was  at  work  at  his  illustrations.  Frank  was 
always  a  very  slow  and  painstaking  worker.  Lem- 
uel, brush  and  pan  in  hand,  was  holding  forth  to 
him  upon  that  one  subject  whereon  he  professed 
to  be  an  authority. 

'  ?F  ye're  a-goin'  with  gals,  go  with  two,"  pro- 
nounced Lemuel,  sententiously. 

"  Always  ?  "  inquired  Frank. 

"  Yuzzer,"  maintained  Lemuel.     "  Fer  why  ?  see 


124         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

the  wisdom  of  it.  'F  one  o'  the  gals  gits  smart, 
w'y,  there's  t'other.  They  sorter  wambles  along,  an' 
keeps  each  other  up  to  taw,  'thout  you  a-worryin' 
about  it." 

"  Competition,"  remarked  Frank. 

"  Yaas,  likely ;  somethin'  o'  that  kind,  I  guess," 
agreed  Lemuel,  vaguely,  as  he  bobbed  me  one  of 
his  absurd  salutations  and  drifted  away. 

Grown  suddenly  industrious,  I  went  at  once  to 
my  table,  and  resisted  all  overtures  to  conversa- 
tion till  I  had  finished  my  writing.  Through  with 
it,  I  sat  and  mused  a  bit.  After  all,  it  would  be 
a  delightful  thing  to  have  some  one  to  sit  in  the 
room  and  work  when  you  were  working,  some  one 
to  read  things  to  when  you  had  finished  them  and 
thought  they  were  good,  to  discuss  plans  with  when 
you  were  just  beginning  to  sketch  out  a  piece  of 
work. 

I  knew  —  who  so  well  ?  —  how  perfectly  Frank 
could  be  all  that,  and  reflected  with  a  sort  of  grieved 
indignation  how  far  he  was  from  being  it.  I  might 
not  sit  beside  him,  happy  in  my  own  work,  in  which 
I  delighted.  No,  it  must  be  something  that  he  had 
planned,  some  task  he  had  laid  upon  me.  The  very 
work  under  my  fingers,  I  dared  not  show  to  him, 
nor  read  to  him ;  for  —  oh,  wayward  me !  —  I  had 
failed  to  set  down  the  brilliant  idea  for  the  book. 
It  had  somehow  evaporated,  and  I  had  written  in 
its  stead  a  bit  of  verse.  Worst  of  all,  it  was  verse 
expressing  a  rebellious  mood,  which  at  the  time 
possessed  me,  toward  this  tyranny  of  affection. 

I  raised  my  head  with  a  start,  and  found  my 
partner's  eyes  fixed  upon  me.  Lemuel,  still  plying 
pan  and  brush  outside  the  studio  door,  was  singing 
as  he  worked. 


«$»  The  Little  Studio        «$»        125 

Lemuel,  though  gey  auld  and  wrinkled  and  blind 
of  one  eye,  is  frequently  moved  to  song,  when  he 
voices  his  sentiments  in  a  thin,  wavering  falsetto. 
For  the  gods  still  smile  upon  Lemuel,  and  the  young- 
est and  least  responsible  of  them  now  counselled  him 
to  pipe: 

"  Oh,  I  love  my  love  an'  my  love  loves  me  — 

They  never  was  hearts  was  fonder ! 
An'  I'll  jist  ketch  a-holt  of  my  trew  love's  hand, 
An'  through  this  world  we'll  wander." 

"  Let's  take  a  holiday,"  proposed  Frank,  "  and  run 
away  together.  I  want  to  go  back  to  that  day  on 
the  train." 

" '  The  moving  Finger  writes ;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on  ;  nor  all  your  Piety  and  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  your  tears  wash  out  a  word  of  it'  " 

I  quoted.  "  You  had  that  marked  big  and  black  in 
your  Rubaiyat,  as  one  of  your  Eternal  Truths." 

"  Well,  it  is  not  true  any  more,"  retorted  Frank, 
easily.  "  I  am  going  to  cancel  the  opinion  you 
formed  of  me  that  day.  I  freely  confess  that  I  had 
not  self-possession  to  be  natural.  I  felt  toward  you 
as  I  had  never  felt  —  never,  toward  any  one  —  be- 
fore. I  was  afraid  to  let  you  see  it,  and  in  concealing 
it  I  concealed  the  real  man  as  well." 

"  Oh,  did  you?  "  I  jeered.  "  Well,  it  is  my  opin- 
ion that  I  saw  through  you  that  first  fifteen  minutes, 
just  as  I've  been  doing  ever  since." 

"You  do  not  understand  me  at  all,"  said  Frank, 
with  a  serious  face.  "  I  long  since  realised  the 


126         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

futility  of  trying  to  express  in  words  most  of  the 
things  which  are  really  worth  expression." 

"  But  I  judge  you  by  the  things  you  do"  I  an- 
swered, with  determined  lightness. 

"  I  so  long,"  he  continued,  "  to  give  you  my  ideas 
as  they  seem  to  me  before  1  clothe  them  in  words. 
I  fear  always  that  I  seem  to  you  abrupt,  stern, 
strange;  not  kindred  to  you  as  you  to  me.  After 
I  am  gone  from  you  —  when  we  are  apart  —  this 
fear  becomes  a  reality  in  regret.  You  must  remem- 
ber I  have  not  your  gift  of  eloquence.  If  I  had, 
I  should  try  to  tell  you  —  to  give  you  just  half  an 
idea  —  how  moved  I  was  by  that  first  meeting  with 
you,  and  how  mad  and  irrational  the  feeling  then 
seemed  to  me." 

"  To  you!  "  I  echoed,  aghast. 

"  Yes,  to  me,"  he  maintained.  "  But  on  your 
account  as  well  as  my  own.  I  have  always  thought 
first  for  your  happiness." 

"  And  your  own  pride,"  I  added. 

"  No.  You  do  not  do  me  justice  —  you  never 
do  me  justice.  I  saw  you  were  carried  away  some- 
what in  the  same  mad  fashion  that  I  myself  was 
—  oh,  I  did.  It  is  too  late  to  mince  matters  and 
choose  words.  If  I  cared,  you  did,  too.  I  saw  that 
you  were  distressed  and  unsettled  —  that  you  dis- 
trusted it  —  " 

"  As  you  did,"  I  cut  in. 

"  Yes,  as  I  did.  Let  it  stand  so,  if  you  will.  I 
determined  there  and  then  to  draw  back  —  to  be 
whatever  you  wanted  me  to  —  your  very  good 
friend,  —  and  —  and  —  but  to  offer  no  love  till  it 
could  be  offered  with  calmness  and  ac —  replied  to 
with  calmness.  It  was  fair  to  neither  of  us  to  do 
more." 


*&  The  Little  Studio        «^        127 

I  stood  at  the  table,  turning  over  drawings  which 
I  could  not  see.  "  You  are  kindness  itself,"  I 
uttered,  finally;  but  my  tone  robbed  the  words  of 
grace. 

"  I  have  been  kinder  to  both  of  us  than  you  will 
admit." 

"  Well,"  I  asked,  finally,  in  a  choking  tone,  "  what 
is  all  this  you  are  coming  to?  " 

"  When  I  found  that  I  loved  you,  Cara  —  sudden, 
ill-founded  as  the  sentiment  might  appear  —  I  did 
riot  need  any  sophistry  to  sustain  my  self-respect. 
I  have  always  held  the  conventionalities  lightly,  if 
not  in  contempt.  The  feeling  itself  was  one  of  which 
I  could  be  proud.  My  restraint  came  from  a  sort 
of  fear  of  the  power  of  the  thing  which  ruled  me. 
That  I  should  rush  at  you  with  an  avowal  for  which 
you  were  not  prepared,  was  a  thing  I  could  not 
brook.  No,  no,  Carita  —  dearest  —  let  me  be  hon- 
est with  you;  that  I  should  be  swept  into  a  posi- 
tion for  which  I  was  not  ready,  was  the  thing  which 
angered  me.  My  frankness  may  cost  me  your  love, 
yet  must  I  say  it.  I  resented  this  being  possessed  by 
an  emotion  stronger  than  my  will.  I  have  gloried  in 
my  self-control,  I  have  held  pride  not  only  in  the 
mastery  of  my  own  emotions,  but  in  my  ability  to 
rule  others,  and  I  would  not  be  mastered.  So  I  ran 
away." 

This  was  true  —  all  true.  I  had  known  it  always, 
nor  blamed  him  for  anything  in  it.  What  I  did 
blame  him  for,  what  I  must  feel  an  offence,  was  the 
blind,  stupid  egotism  that  permitted  him  to  say  it  to 
me  here,  now. 

My  head  came  up,  the  tears  of  feeling  dried  in 
my  eyes.  "  You  certainly  need  not  run  away  from 


128         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$* 

me,"  I  said,  gathering  up  my  possessions  with  un- 
steady fingers,  and  preparing  to  depart. 

Frank  came  over,  smiling,  took  the  things  out 
of  my  hands,  holding  both  of  them  in  his  firm, 
masterful  grasp.  "  There,  now,  the  queen  is  angry," 
he  said.  "  Do  you  know,  dearest,  I  am  always 
somewhat  afraid  of  you.  You  are  such  a  little  bun- 
dle of  dynamite.  It  is  new  to  me  —  and  not  alto- 
gether comfortable  —  to  be  so  timid.  I  turn  every 
sentence  of  yours  over  and  over  in  my  halting  mind 
till  I  have  derived  as  many  meanings  from  it  as 
a  disputatious  churchman  could  get  out  of  the  Apos- 
tles' Creed.  And  meantime  you  are  away  —  offended 
—  hatching  up  accusations  against  me." 

"  You !  "  I  cried,  a  little  wildly.  "  Any  one  as 
cold  and  hard  as  you  are!  You  don't  care  whom 
you  hurt,  nor  how  much." 

"How  dare  you  say  I  am  cold?"  he  asked, 
quickly,  with  a  touch  of  the  old  sternness,  raising 
my  face  and  looking  into  my  unwilling  eyes.  "  How 
dare  you  hint  that  I  would  intentionally  wound 
you  ?  I  have  tried  always  to  think  of  you  first  — 
to  consider  what  was  best  for  you  in  this." 

I  longed  inexpressibly  to  say  that  the  possession 
of  my  own  soul,  the  courage  to  assert  that  it  was 
my  own,  was  certainly  what  was  best  for  me.  But 
speech  of  any  sort  would  not  come. 

"  You  are  as  free  as  air,  my  love,"  he  said,  gently 
relinquishing  my  hand,  and  dropping  to  the  deep 
tones  that  were  so  irresistible  to  me.  "  Cara,  you 
are  the  brightest  spirit,  the  sunniest,  truest,  bravest 
soul  I  have  ever  known.  You  are  the  sweetest  in- 
fluence, dear,  that  has  ever  come  into  my  life.  And 
you  have  the  loveliest  eyes,  the  loveliest  smile,  the 


«£•  The  Little  Studio        «8»         129 

most  adorable  presence  a  woman  ever  had.  Would 
I  want  you  —  would  I  love  and  wish  to  keep  you 
for  my  own?  I  do  love  you  and  want  you  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul  and  strength.  But  I  would  not 
lay  a  finger  upon  your  will.  You  must  come  to 
me  of  your  own  motion,  if  you  come  at  all." 

I  was  aware,  I  know  not  how,  that  this  was  not 
an  assurance  of  generous  devotion,  but  the  demand 
of  selfishness.  Something  in  me  understood  that 
it  meant  not  only,  "  I  desire  your  love,"  but,  "  I 
desire  that  you  should  offer  it  to  me."  And  some- 
where, somewhere,  back  in  my  fond  soul,  I  found 
courage  to  resist  it. 

Though  my  throat  shut  on  the  thing  I  tried  to 
say,  Frank  caught  the  words,  "  a  selfish  demand." 
He  instantly  drew  back  a  little,  in  amazement,  pro- 
testing : 

"  I  am  not  selfish ;  I  am  not  demanding.  Ask 
those  nearest  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  I  answered,  finding  my  voice 
again.  "  The  people  who  belong  to  you,  the  people 
who  surrender  their  wills  and  their  lives  to  you 
—  you  are  very  kind  to  them.  It  is  the  presump- 
tion of  equality  in  any  one  you  love  that  you  will 
not  tolerate." 

"  Cara!  "  he  cried,  with  deep  reproach.  "  If  you 
loved  me  —  no,  I  will  not  say  that  —  you  do  love 
me;  if  you  were  willing  to  admit  it  —  you  would 
not  bring  up  so  absurd  a  thing  as  the  question  of 
equality.  You  know  how  far  above  me  I  hold  you." 

I  looked  at  him  with  swimming  eyes.  "  Yes,  I 
love  you  —  and  I  am  willing  to  love  you,"  I  sobbed, 
"if  I  could  do  so  and  not  be  rent  —  distracted  — 
destroyed  by  it"  When  the  words  were  out,  I 


130         «$»         The  Last  Word  «P» 

saw  the  offence  they  contained,  and  trembled.  To 
my  great  relief,  Frank  took  them  somewhat  hu- 
mourously. 

"  Who  told  you  you  were  to  be  rent,  distracted, 
and  destroyed?  I  think  you  must  be  already  a 
little  distracted,  and  deserve  to  be  destroyed,"  he 
said,  with  the  indulgent  laugh  of  one  who  gently 
rallies  an  overwrought  child. 

And  so  a  truce  was  patched  between  us,  but  a 
truce  which  left  my  heart  sore.  The  thought  of  life 
with  Frank  came  to  me  after  that  just  as  my  mood 
was,  either  a  vision  of  rapture,  an  outlook  of  perfect 
bliss,  utter  content;  or,  when  the  mood  was  a  black 
one,  a  long  vista  of  dreary  self-restraint,  self-con- 
demnation, scarred  and  seared  by  the  marks  of 
impotent  outbreaks,  upheavals,  and  explosions, 
growing  gradually  feebler  and  more  infrequent, 
till  they  ended  in  the  dead  level  of  complete  re- 
linquishment. 

It  had  power  to  wake  me  in  the  night  with  an 
icy  finger  laid  upon  my  heart,  and  a  whisper,  "  To 
this  favour  you  will  come  —  aye,  for  all  your  fine 
words  and  your  prating  about  liberty  and  self-ex- 
pression, there  will  come  a  time  when  his  love  will 
count  highest,  and  you  will  sell  for  it  your  birth- 
right/; 

I  said  to  myself,  when  I  was  utterly  wearied  out 
with  the  conflict,  "  Yes,  I  will,  and  I  shall  find  peace. 
Just  to  lay  my  head  on  Frank's  breast  and  give  it 
all  up,  let  him  think  for  me,  decide  for  me,  live  my 
life  for  me  —  that  would  be  all;  then  the  conflict 
would  be  over.  I  should  be  at  rest." 

And  I  remembered,  with  a  start,  that  these  are 
the  words  we  choose  in  which  to  speak  of  the  dead, 
and  added,  half  whimsically,  half  sadly, 


-9»  The  Little  Studio        «$»        131 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  dead  then.  It  is  a  moral  death 
• —  a  spiritual  death." 

And  yet,  not  being  quite  ready  for  the  spiritual 
sexton  to  shovel  me  under,  I  sought  for  something 
to  serve  as  a  temporary  stay  of  proceedings. 

To  get  away  —  that  was  it  —  away  where  I  could 
think  clearly,  where  my  mental  machinery  would 
not  be  unbalanced  by  the  presence  of  the  powerful 
magnet  of  Frank's  will;  to  get  some  perspective 
upon  this  matter  that  now  filled  my  whole  field  of 
vision.  And  I  resolved  to  find  an  opportunity  to 
do  this  —  or  to  make  one. 


CHAPTER   X. 

"His   Proper  Gift" 

"  If  we  impinge  never  so  slightly  upon  the  life  of  a  fellow 
mortal,  the  touch  of  our  personality,  like  the  ripple  of  a  stone 
cast  into  a  pond,  widens  and  widens  across  the  seons,  till  the 
far-off  gods  themselves  cannot  say  where  action  ceases. 

"  This  man  had  chosen  to  thrust  an  inexpert  finger  into  the 
workings  of  another's  life." 

WE  had  actually  schemed  the  big  book,  the  senior 
partner  in  the  undertaking  going  ahead  and  doing 
most  of  the  work,  to  encourage  me,  as  one  holds 
out  a  hand  a  pace  or  two  in  advance  of  the  child 
who  is  learning  to  walk. 

I  had  never  imagined  that  anything  in  the  way  of 
writing  could  be  such  misery  to  me  as  was  the  pro- 
duction of  those  first  chapters.  All  my  gifts  (and 
I  am  not  modest  about  possessing  a  few)  were 
thrown  away  upon  this  heavy,  statistical  work.  It 
was  going  to  be  the  kind  of  a  book  which  you  can  re- 
spect, but  surely  not  the  sort  that  any  one  could  love; 
and  if  I  cannot  love  my  work  I  am  undone. 

I  wrote  away  doggedly,  savagely,  sullenly;  put- 
ting down  I  know  not  what  heavy  stupidity,  and 
growing  more  and  more  mutinous  with  each  line. 
There  had  been  three  weeks  of  this  sort  of  thing. 
My  nerves  were  on  edge,  my  temper  past  praying 
for,  and  I  was  ready  to  break  into  open  rebellion, 

132 


«9»  "  His  Proper  Gift "       <&>       133 

when  Mr.  DeWitt  remarked  in  my  hearing  that  one 
of  his  Washington  correspondents  was  shortly  to 
marry  a  Congressman  from  a  Western  State,  and  he 
must  fill  her  place. 

"  This  is  the  third,"  he  raged.  "  There  is  a  fatal- 
ity in  it  —  I  am  not  sure  but  he  is  from  Utah,  and 
all  the  same  Congressman;  but  for  my  part  I  am 
tired  of  operating  a  matrimonial  bureau  in  favour 
of  literary  young  ladies." 

"  Then  send  me  over ;  oh,  please  send  me,"  I 
pleaded,  ardently  —  here  was  the  very  respite  I 
had  demanded  of  fate.  "  I  never  had  a  try  at  politi- 
cal work.  I  long  to  attempt  it.  You  have  no  idea 
how  much  I  know  about  politics." 

"  Neither  have  you,  I  suspect,"  retorted  my  editor, 
with  slashing  frankness.  "  But  it  is  not  a  political 
correspondent  we  want.  It  is  —  " 

"Fashions?"  I  broke  in,  feverishly.  "I  could 
do  them  to  the  queen's  taste  —  in  a  place  like  Wash- 
ington." 

Something  seemed  to  be  pulling  at  the  back  of 
my  head.  Uneasily,  I  looked  around,  and  found  the 
president  standing  in  the  door  of  his  private  room, 
his  accusing  eyes  upon  me.  He  had  come  in  with- 
out my  seeing  him ;  but  since  he  had  heard  my  re- 
quest, and  was  incensed  thereat,  I  determined  to  be 
hung  —  there  was  nothing  short  of  hanging  in  his 
eye  —  for  the  very  largest  sheep  in  the  pasture. 

"It  isn't  fashions,  either,"  said  Mr.  DeWitt. 
"  You  must  go  about  to  functions,  and  write  them 
up  in  breezy  style.  It  is  a  high-grade  society  letter 
we  want ;  the  kind  of  thing,  if  my  recollection  serves 
me,  which  you  once  characterised  as  'unspeakably 
loathsome  work.' " 


134         *9*         The  Last  Word  «f» 

"  Well,  I  should  be  glad  to  do  it  now,"  I  an- 
swered. "  I  have  known  worse  things  since  I  talked 
that  way.  If  you  have  any  commission  that  will  take 
me  out  of  New  York  for  awhile,  do  please  give  it 
to  me  —  I  promise  to  do  my  very  best.  You  say 
that  when  I  try  I  can  always  suit  you." 

Later,  the  president  came  past  Bushrod  Floyd's 
desk,  where  I  sat  at  work,  and  laying  upon  my 
writing-pad  a  glove  which  I  remembered  to  have 
left  in  the  little  studio,  looked  at  me  with  not  un- 
kind reproach. 

No  word  was  spoken  between  us,  and,  stepping 
to  Bushrod's  drawing-board,  he  held  there  a  low- 
toned  conversation.  My  spirit  always  flinched 
from  sight  of  these  two  together.  If  Frank  showed 
the  schoolmaster  to  me  whom  he  loved  and  really 
approved,  it  was  the  judge's  face  he  turned  ever 
upon  Bushrod.  The  latter  was  not  only  a  sus- 
pected criminal  before  him,  but  one  whose  sentence 
—  justly  prepared  —  was  merely  suspended. 

The  elder  man's  attitude  was  even  more  distress- 
ing to  me.  That  worst  which  was  expected  of  him, 
he  promptly  supplied.  Light,  trashy,  idle,  imper- 
tinent—  he  was  all  of  these  with  his  cousin;  and 
perverse  in  a  mad  fashion  which  should  have 
amused,  or  even  touched,  the  saner  man. 

Bushrod  Floyd  was  the  one  exception  I  have  ever 
seen  to  Francis  Randolph's  vocation  for  the  han- 
dling of  men.  It  was  Frank's  talent  for  adminis- 
tration, leadership,  which  had  put  him,  in  his  youth, 
at  the  head  of  a  great  corporation  like  the  Salem 
Publishing  Company. 

This  house  had  been  for  years  famous  for  its 
magnificent  art  works.  When  Frank  returned  from 


<&  "His  Proper  Gift"       «$»       135 

abroad,  he  began  with  them,  as  a  highly  paid  illus- 
trator. Later,  he  had  thought  best  to  put  his  patri- 
money  into  its  stock,  had  been  first  director,  later  art 
manager;  and  when  its  president  died,  a  few  weeks 
before  my  arrival  in  New  York,  he  had  been  elected 
to  that  office. 

Early  in  those  days  of  enthusiastic  work,  as  I  gath- 
ered from  the  chance  remarks  of  those  concerned, 
he  had  gone  home  to  Virginia  and  found  his  cousin, 
Bushrod  Floyd,  a  fairly  prosperous  young  lawyer 
in  a  country  town. 

The  drawing  which  this  country  lawyer  pursued 
as  an  amateur  impressed  Frank  greatly.  He  urged 
ambition  upon  the  possessor  of  so  much  talent.  He 
rated  —  and  rightly  —  his  cousin's  ability  above  his 
own.  He  offered  a  temporary  position  in  the  art 
department  of  the  publishing  house,  and  financial  aid 
to  the  pursuit  of  proper  studies. 

Poor  Bushrod !  With  a  nice  discrimination  which 
never  failed  him  at  such  a  point,  he  accepted  just 
those  things,  and  declined  just  those  others,  which 
ensured  him  a  modified  failure  or,  at  best,  the  mini- 
mum success.  A  position  where  he  could  work  his 
way  honestly,  as  he  phrased  it,  he  took.  Money  which 
would  have  fitted  him  for  anything  better,  he  re- 
fused. 

The  event  was,  naturally,  unsatisfactory  to  both 
men.  Francis  Randolph  was  left  to  justify  himself 
as  best  he  might  for  having  (even  with  the  kindest 
intention)  laid  hands  upon  the  life  of  another,  and 
moved  so  actively  in  that  other's  affairs  as  to  feel, 
in  a  sense,  responsible  for  his  failure. 

Between  the  two  lay,  always  fresh  and  available 
for  new  bitterness  and  misunderstanding,  the  ques- 


136          «$»         The  Last  Word  <9> 

tion  of  Bushrod's  drinking.  The  few  poor  facts 
were  these : 

When  New  York  with  its  larger  opportunities, 
and  his  cousin's  belief  in  him,  began  to  press  too 
hard  upon  Bushrod's  imperfection,  there  resulted 
the  first  spree. 

Having  made  this  new,  hopeful  environment  a 
place  apt  only  for  failure,  having  implanted  in 
the  minds  of  all  about  him  a  belief  in  his  inevitable 
falling  short,  Bushrod  added  almost  nothing  to  fos- 
ter this  belief;  the  outbreak  was  repeated  but  once 
or  twice.  And  he  endured  the  resultant  atmos- 
phere of  criticism  in  which  he  must  now  live,  with 
a  patient  dignity  that  was  part  of  his  acceptance 
of  things,  and  which  promised  no  retrieval. 

Among  his  own  people,  all  would  have  been  easily 
forgotten.  Back  in  the  little  Virginia  town  where 
he  was  born,  if  this  thing  happened  (as  it  had  hap- 
pened a  few  times),  why,  he  was  one  of  the  Floyds; 
there  was  not  a  negro  on  its  streets  but  was  ready 
to  "  ca'y  Marse  Bush  home,"  not  a  hotel  or  board- 
ing-house but  would  have  offered  him  its  temporary 
asylum. 

Here  in  the  great  alien  city,  fronting  Frank's 
chilly  disgust  it  took  on  a  different  colour.  What 
had  been  there  a  failing,  a  weakness,  was  here  made 
a  crime,  and  the  doer  of  it  was  —  to  my  thinking, 
at  least  —  crucified  daily  for  it. 

Bushrod  had,  for  his  cousin,  the  smouldering 
hostility  we  feel  toward  those  whom  we  love  and 
fail  to  please;  the  bitterness  of  the  faulty  for  the 
well-nigh  faultless  creature;  the  pained  resentment 
of  the  weak,  vulnerable,  easily  influenced  nature 
toward  the  strong,  poised,  self-centred  one. 


«$»  "His  Proper  Gift"       -*»       137 

"  Burt  tells  me  you  are  refusing  to  submit  a  de- 
sign for  the  Bismarck  poster,"  began  the  president. 

"  Burt  informs  you  exactly,"  returned  the  other. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Bush,"  pursued  Frank,  temperately. 
"  Why  do  you  object  to  trying?  " 

"  Because  I  have  no  ability  for  bill-board  art  — 
rotten  stuff,"  retorted  his  cousin. 

"  The  house  needs  the  posters,  and  you  need  — 
what  it  would  bring  you.  You  have  the  very  touch 
for  it.  I  have  been  tempted  to  have  some  of  your 
small  designs  enlarged  for  the  purpose.  Posters  are 
attracting  attention  just  now;  it  would  bring  you 
reputation." 

"  Thanks,"  drawled  the  big  man.  "  You  fellows 
who  have  studied  in  Paris  have  some  queer  ideas 
of  art.  I'm  a  bit  old  fashioned.  Best  let  me  alone. 
Let  me  draw  my  little  tiddle-de-winks  stuff  which 
brings  me  bread  and  butter,  and  of  which  I'm  not 
ashamed.  Get  Bernstein  to  do  your  posters." 

And  Frank  went  out  with  the  knitted  brow  and 
stern  lip  which  he  was  apt  to  bring  away  from  an 
interview  with  Bushrod. 

Later,  when  I  rose  to  leave  the  office,  Mr.  DeWitt 
checked  me  at  his  desk,  and  motioned  me  to  sit  down 
in  the  chair  beside  his  own. 

'These,"  he  began,  spreading  several  letters  be- 
fore me,  "  are  your  various  passports,  letters  of  in- 
struction and  of  introduction."  He  went  through 
them  with  his  quick,  even,  luminous  clearness,  so  that 
my  Washington  life  and  work  lay  before  me  vividly 
distinct. 

He  took  up  the  last  one,  and  turning  toward  me 
said,  "  This  is  to  our  Miss  Salem.  You  know  of 
her?" 


138         «$»         The  Last  Word  *f» 

"  Yes,"  I  responded.  "  I  understand  that  she 
owns  —  she  inherited  —  much  stock  in  the  com- 
pany. Her  father  was  its  founder,  wasn't  he? 
Some  one  said  to  me  that  she  would  be  the  presi- 
dent if  she  had  happened  to  be  a  man." 

"Yes.  Just  so,"  smiled  Mr.  DeWitt.  "Well, 
she  knows  of  you;  it  was  she  who  most  warmly 
approved  Mr.  Randolph's  suggestion  that  I  might 
bring  you  to  New  York.  She  is  fond  of  your  work. 
Of  course  she  will  be  —  both  personally  and  in  a 
business  way  —  everything  to  you  in  Washington.  I 
should,  if  I  were  you,  take  this  letter  to  her  imme- 
diately on  arrival." 


CHAPTER    XI. 

The   Battle   of  the   Sovereigns 

"  We  commoners  stood  by  the  street  facade 
And  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cavalcade. 

In  they  swept,  all  riches  and  grace, 
Silks  and  satins,  jewels  and  lace ; 

In  they  swept  from  the  dazzled  sun." 

BEFORE  I  left  New  York,  I  arranged  my  exceed- 
ingly limited  domestic  affairs  satisfactorily. 

Poor  little  Texas  never  really  gave  me  his  heart 
nor  his  confidence.  He  endured  me,  as  dogs  and 
women  think  they  must  endure  people  who  are 
thrust  upon  them,  patiently,  resignedly.  The  Cor- 
coran flat  —  I  think  I  have  mentioned  that  the  Cor- 
coran flat  was  more  limited  in  extent  than,  for  in- 
stance, a  Western  plain.  It  ever  seemed  to  me,  when 
we  were  all  at  home,  overfull  of  people;  and  when 
Texas,  just  little,  slim-legged,  tremulous  Texas  was 
added  to  its  inmates,  it  appeared  really  bursting  with 
dog.  And  Texas  regarded  the  Corcoran  flat,  the 
Corcoran  cat  and  the  Corcoran  family,  sadly.  When 
they  would  have  caressed  him  and  made  him  one  of 
them,  he  developed  a  valetudinarian  air  of  being 
slightly  ill. 

But  when,  on  a  day,  I  allowed  him  to  accom- 
pany me  to  the  office,  he  immediately  "  took  up  " 
with  Mr.  DeWitt,  and  he  was  never  afterward 


140         «f»         The  Last  Word  «^» 

clog  of  mine.  The  two  had,  it  appeared,  many 
things  in  common.  Both  were  reserved,  elegant, 
fastidious.  Both  deprecated  all  vociferation  and 
demonstration.  And  they  sympathised,  I  fancy, 
upon  the  matter  of  pedigree  —  a  sympathy  into 
which  I  could  not  enter. 

So,  when  I  was  leaving  New  York  for  Washing- 
ton, I  took,  and  formally  presented,  Texas  to  Mr. 
DeWitt,  wishing  I  were  sure  that  he  would  receive 
my  Washington  copy  after  the  same  gracious  fash- 
ion in  which  he  accepted  my  dog,  and  that  I  could 
feel  confident  he  would  always  be  as  kind  to  it. 

So  soon  as  I  had  well  arrived  in  Washington, 
I  went  with  my  letter  to  Miss  Salem,  to  find  her 
all  that  Mr.  DeWitt  had  forecast,  besides  very  much 
more,  which  he  could  not  have  known  or  imagined. 
She  was  a  New  England  woman  of  exceptionally 
fine  culture,  broadened  and  strengthened  by  her 
business  experience.  She  had  a  big  brain,  ham- 
pered, limited  here  and  there,  by  a  somewhat 
narrow,  passive  conservatism  which  surprised  one 
afresh  every  time  it  manifested  itself.  She  was  of 
a  disposition  most  sweet  and  tender,  and  she  had 
a  quality  so  fine,  a  breeding  so  exquisite  that,  among 
all  her  excellencies  of  gift  and  cultivation,  this  fine- 
ness and  high-breeding  were  most  distinguished. 
.  We  pleased  each  other  at  once.  For  me,  I  loved 
everything  about  Priscilla  Salem ;  and  she  appeared 
to  find  me  a  welcome  feature  in  her  life. 

It  was  a  surprising  relation  which  established 
itself  between  us  two  women,  almost  from  the  first. 
I  was  Miss  Salem's  junior  by  fifteen  years,  an 
orphan,  absolutely  alone  in  the  world,  with  no  for- 
tune except  such  as  my  pencil  could  conquer  for  me, 


«£»      The  Battle  of  the  Sovereigns    «$»    141 

no  wide  circle  of  friends  —  a  fairly  pathetic  figure 
the  ordinary  thinker  would  have  found  me.  Francis 
Randolph  so  thought,  and  irked  me  with  his  pity. 

She  was  a  rich  woman,  a  distinguished  woman, 
with  the  honours  and  advantages  of  a  man,  with 
troops  of  friends  —  and  those  who  usurped  that 
name  because  they  had  interests  to  serve  —  perpet- 
ually offering  admiration  and  incense  at  her  shrine. 
And  yet,  as  I  say,  from  the  first,  what  I  felt  for  her 
was  compassion.  I  was  most  sincerely  fond  of  her 
at  once;  and  it  was  an  unformulated  and  unex- 
pressed understanding  that  I  was  to  cheer  her,  to 
comfort  her,  to  give  (out  of  my  affluence)  something 
which  she  lacked. 

Her  conventionality  seemed  at  first  rather  for- 
midable to  me.  I  was  uncertain  of  her  till  after  our 
first  trip  out  together.  She  developed,  upon  that 
occasion,  just  a  delicate  air  of  chastened  Bohemian- 
ism  which  sat  charmingly  upon  her;  and  we  later 
took  many  such  trips,  indulging  in  a  sort  of  Emer- 
sonian larking  and  holiday  making  that  I  found  very 
delightful. 

We  were  coming  along  Pennsylvania  Avenue 
upon  a  certain  afternoon,  on  our  way  home  from 
one  of  these  excursions,  when  Miss  Salem  remarked 
that  it  was  public  reception  day  at  the  White  House. 

I  halted  instantly,  saying,  "  We'll  go." 

"  Oh,  no,"  demurred  Miss  Salem,  "  we  must  go 
there  in  the  carriage,  or  we  shall  have  to  stand  in  line 
awaiting  our  turn.  See  that  line  of  people  half-way 
to  the  gate,  two  abreast?  We  might  be  an  hour 
getting  in ! "  and  she  looked  a  dainty  cat  revolting 
upon  the  edge  of  a  muddy  puddle. 

But  I  was  firm.     I  insisted  that  the  spirit  of  the 


142         «$»         The  Last  Word  *&> 

thing  was  essentially  democratic,  and  that  we  should 
go  the  whole  animal,  not  availing  ourselves  of  any 
adventitious  advantages  we  might  possess.  So  we 
approached  the  line,  I  very  determined,  Miss  Salem 
still  protesting  scatteringly.  In  that  line  we  stood 
a  long  time,  only  occasionally  moving  six  or  eight 
inches  forward.  There  was  an  unkind  mist  in  the 
air,  and  the  pavement  was  damp.  I  was  obliged 
to  admit,  finally,  that  I  was  much  more  uncomfor- 
table than  I  had  ever  been  before  in  the  whole  course 
of  an  adventurous  career. 

The  carriage  people,  driving  up  and  passing 
directly  into  the  house,  gave  rise  to  mutterings  of 
discontent  in  our  ranks.  Just  behind  us,  a  man  with 
a  planing-mill  voice  spoke  with  bitterness.  I  grew 
less  and  less  happy  momentarily.  As  for  Miss 
Salem,  she  retired  still  further  into  herself.  She 
looked  still  slenderer,  and  (without  any  appearance 
of  arrogance)  more  distinctly  high-bred  and  patri- 
cian. She  glanced  at  me  with  gentle  reproach.  I, 
myself,  had  I  spoken  truth,  would  have  confessed 
that  my  feelings  in  the  matter  of  this  particular 
enterprise  had  undergone  change,  and  that  some- 
what less  democracy  would  yet  have  been  demo- 
cratic enough  for  me. 

Within  the  lobby,  when  at  last  we  entered  it,  the 
crush  was  frightful.  The  marine  band  was  making 
delightful  music.  The  surroundings  were  rich  and 
elegant ;  the  crowd,  that  queer  mixture  we  all  know 
in  such  places,  included  everything;  well-dressed 
persons  of  wealth  and  distinction,  country  brethren 
and  sisters  from  far-back  counties,  many  apparently 
just  off  the  train,  and  with  little  grips  clutched  in 
their  hands  of  honest  toil. 


^      The  Battle  of  the  Sovereigns    «$»    143 

I  thought  it  all  very  funny,  and  enjoyed  it  gaily, 
not  minding  in  the  least  the  crowding  and  jamming. 
Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  our  progress  across  the 
lobby,  and  in  the  fiercest  of  the  onslaught,  Miss 
Salem,  behind  me,  ejaculated :  "  Miss  West,  your 
hair  is  coming  down  —  oh,  it  is  coming  off!  " 

My  hair  was  at  that  time  four  inches  long.  It 
was  my  custom  to  gather  up  all  its  rebellion  (with 
more  difficulty  than  a  dull  country  parson  expe- 
riences in  getting  together  a  lukewarm  flock  on  a 
rainy  Sunday),  stick  a  hairpin  through  it,  and  pin 
on  a  knot  of  my  own  hair  whose  original  connection 
with  my  head  had  been  severed  during  an  illness 
one  year  earlier. 

I  clapped  my  hand  to  the  back  of  my  head.  Yes, 
the  knot  was  coming  off  —  it  was  hanging  top  end 
down!  Neither  of  us  could  avert  the  catastrophe, 
hampered  as  we  were  by  our  gloves  and  wraps.  A 
pale,  mild-looking  young  man  in  a  frolicsome  coat 
approached  and,  seeing  something  was  amiss, 
showed  us  the  way  to  the  dressing-room. 

We  found  it  impracticable  to  try  to  restore  the 
edifice  to  my  head.  The  hairpins  seemed  to  have 
been  torn  out  and  lost  in  the  hand-to-hand  struggle 
across  the  lobby,  and  loose  ends  were  bobbing  every- 
where. "  Let  the  curls  go,"  counselled  Miss  Salem. 
"  I  think  they  are  charming.  I  never  guessed  you 
had  such  hyacinthine  locks."  So  I  rolled  the  hair 
up  and  (having  nowhere  else  to  put  it)  stuffed  it 
into  my  muff,  —  a  fanciful  little  structure  of  ribbon 
and  lace  with  a  mighty  bunch  of  odorous  violets 
tied  atop  of  it,  —  and  we  once  more  joined  the 
innumerable  caravan. 

We  crossed  the  corridor,  the  red  room,  and  were 


144         *^*         The  Last  Word  «£» 

precipitated  into  the  blue  room,  where  stood,  captive 
and  at  bay,  the  innocent  wife  of  the  chief  executive, 
supported  upon  the  flank  by  several  friendly  ladies 
(friendly  to  her,  you  will  understand). 

A  Choctaw  version  of  our  names  was  hurled  in 
with  us.  We  sidled,  smiling,  past  the  First  Lady  and 
those  with  her. 

We  ran  the  gauntlet,  both  there  and  in  the  green 
room  beyond  (where  a  crowd  of  assisting  ladies 
were  intrenched  behind  a  barricading  sofa  and 
chairs),  of  forty  or  fifty  pairs  of  curious  eyes  which 
stared  with  cold  and  alien  looks  at  the  passing 
stream,  as  though  it  had  been  an  interesting  zoolog- 
ical collection,  which,  I  must  admit,  it  did  strongly 
suggest.  I  thought  I  knew  how  the  animals  in  the 
circus  feel;  and  I  confess  that  the  attitude  of  these 
women  was  most  offensive  to  my  free  spirit.  I  had 
a  prompting,  such  as  animates  the  small  boy,  to  shy 
things  at  them.  However,  I  passed  on,  with  only  a 
haughty  glance. 

Dear  Miss  Salem  was  grateful  for  the  Choctaw 
translation  of  her  name,  for  the  fact  that  none  of  the 
"receivers"  (who,  I  bitterly  reminded  her,  were 
as  bad  as  the  thief)  would  be  expecting  to  see  her 
in  this  motley  procession  of  unassorted  humanity 
which  filed  solemnly  past  them,  and  finally,  for 
my  tall  figure,  beside  which  she  seemed  to  twilight 
along,  safe  from  detection. 

After  many  strange  encounters  and  hairbreadth 
escapes,  we  met,  in  the  conservatory,  the  Japanese 
minister  and  his  wife,  dressed  in  European  costume. 
Mr.  Hatsuko  charmed  me  to  the  soul.  His  rare 
and  original  ugliness  made  a  stronger  appeal  to 
my  interest  than  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  orchids 


«f»      The  Battle  of  the  Sovereigns    <+    145 

near  which  he  was  standing.  I  studied  with  delight 
his  amazing  facial  architecture,  dwelling  with  equal 
joy  upon  his  Hispano-Moresque  nose  and  his  Queen 
Anne  mouth.  I  observed  that  he  looked  out  at  the 
world  with  a  sort  of  Corinthian  squint  from  under 
Indo- Japanesque  eyebrows. 

"  Miss  Salem,"  I  remarked,  innocently,  "  the  Jap- 
anese minister's  hair  and  whiskers  are  pure  Ara- 
besque, aren't  they?  They  are  straggling  and  ran- 
dom —  evidently  put  there  expressly  for  Japanese 
winds  to  blow  through !  " 

Miss  Salem's  face  flushed.  She  looked  at  the 
minister  with  open  terror,  and  at  me  with  the  most 
merited  reproach  and  reprehension.  Poor  dear,  she 
was  spared  the  worst;  he  had  not  heard  me.  And 
Retribution,  in  the  person  of  a  hurrying  female,  was 
at  hand.  The  mere  wind  of  this  woman's  haste, 
it  seemed  to  me,  tore  the  little  violet-decked  muff 
from  my  careless  hand.  The  unconscious  object 
of  my  rude  scrutiny,  with  an  instant  and  kindly 
courtesy  which  should  have  covered  me  with  shame 
and  self-reproach  (and  did,  in  truth,  do  just  that) 
bent  at  once  to  restore  it  to  me.  He  grasped  at  it, 
just  struck  it  with  the  ends  of  his  fingers;  it  slid 
gaily  away  from  him,  and  out  rolled  in  a  curly  mass 
my  back  hair! 

The  little  man  quite  jumped  back,  and  uttered  an 
exclamation.  Then  came  numbers  of  idle  people, 
crowding  around  to  see  what  the  excitement  was 
—  I  believe  they  thought  I  had  pinched  him.  Poor 
Miss  Salem's  face  was  a  picture  of  pained  confu- 
sion; I  myself  felt  most  uncomfortable.  Making 
a  determined  dive  for  my  hair  and  my  muff,  I 
swept  one  up  in  each  hand,  thrust  the  former  inside 


146         «^         The  Last  Word  <& 

the  latter,  clutched  my  companion's  arm,  and  we 
hurried  out. 

I  was  as  much  ashamed  as  it  is  agreeable  to  be 
—  I  was  more.  Generally  speaking,  I  have  small 
faith  in  the  usefulness  of  apologies.  They  are,  not 
uncommonly,  both  feeble  and  offensive.  But  when 
we  had  thus  made  our  exit  from  this  last  scene,  and 
were  walking  quietly  along  G  Street,  the  feeling 
was  strong  upon  me  that  something  of  the  sort  was 
due  Miss  Salem.  So  I  appealed,  haltingly, 

"  Miss  Salem,  before  you  decide  never  to  take  me 
anywhere  again,  I  —  I  wish  to  say  that  it  isn't 
always  this  way  with  me  —  really,  it  is  not.  I  can- 
not honestly  claim  that  it  is  ever  noticeably  quiet 
and  correct ;  but  there  are  times  —  days  together  — 
when  I  seem  able  to  do  much  better,  and  things  go 
on  quite  as  they  do  with  other  people;  certainly 
they  do  not  commonly  run  to  this  height." 

"  But  —  "  she  began,  and  I  broke  in  eagerly, 

"  Please  don't  be  uneasy  upon  the  score  of  that 
disgraceful  hair.  I  shall  fasten  it  on  tightly,  with 
great  shell  pins.  And  I'll  never,  never  try  to  drag 
you  into  a  crush  again,  any  more  than  I  would  if 
I  knew  myself  to  be  cheaply  made  of  plaster  or 
papier  mache,  and  all  hollow  inside.  If  you  —  " 

"  But,"  interrupted  Miss  Salem,  and  she  turned 
upon  me  eyes  wet  with  the  tears  of  laughter,  "  I  like 
you  just  so.  During  those  peaceful  seasons  you 
speak  of,  the  irresistible  fascination  you  possess 
for  me  would  be  least  in  evidence. 

"  As  it  is,  I  shall  soon  be  past  all  fear  and  anxiety 
on  your  account,  all  hesitation  upon  my  own;  for 
every  time  the  worst  again  happens,  I  am  again 
taught  to  feel  confidence  that  the  gods  will  not  per- 


«$»      The  Battle  of  the  Sovereigns    «^    147 

mit  you  to  be  destroyed.  Certainly  they  should  not, 
for  I  know  there  is  only  one  of  you.  Surely,  there 
was  never  —  there  never  will  be  —  another." 

I  sighed  with  relief.  "  Certainly  nobody  could  be 
kinder  than  you  are,"  I  declared.  "  I  am  so  glad 
you  take  it  that  way.  Then  I  am  to  just  go  on 
naturally  —  ?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  she  interrupted,  "  if  it  is  just 
natural  for  you  to  be  quite  the  most  preposterous 
and  delightful  of  naughty  girls." 

I  glanced  at  her  dubiously,  but  she  was  in  good 
laughing  earnest.  So  I  said,  "  Well,  the  Corcorans 
are  very  nice  about  it,  too.  They  think  it  rather 
good  fun  to  take  me  about." 

"  I  should  suppose  so,"  she  returned.  "  My  dear 
child,  you  are  the  modern  version  of  that  magic  talis- 
man which  changed  one's  identity;  for  (at  least 
while  I  am  with  you)  I  see  and  hear  and  feel  and 
know  these  old,  stale,  weary  things  I  have  been 
doing  all  my  life,  with  other  eyes  and  ears,  other 
feelings  and  thoughts.  It  is  alive,  somehow.  It 
offers  suggestions,  avenues,  approaches,  where  al- 
ways before  it  was  a  varnished  surface  —  or  at  best 
a  mechanical  toy  panorama." 

"  Oh,  how  kind  you  are!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Now, 
at  home  —  in  Texas,  I  mean  —  they  don't  think  any 
of  these  things  about  me  at  all.  I  suppose  that  is 
because  they  are  all  just  pretty  much  like  me." 

"  That  they  are  not !  "  she  cried,  laughing  afresh. 
"  I  am  well  persuaded  that  there  is  nowhere  —  not 
even  in  Texas,  since  that  is  where  you  pretend  to 
come  from  —  anybody  at  all  resembling  you." 

The  very  next  day  I  came  suddenly  upon  Jim 
Baxter,  where  he  stood  in  front  of  Peale's  picture 


148         «f»         The  Last  Word  *f» 

of  Washington  in  the  Senate  lobby.  I  knew  him 
instantly,  though  I  had  supposed  him  two  thousand 
miles  away  in  West  Texas.  I  could  not  be  mistaken. 
What  Miss  Salem  had  said  of  me  was  certainly  true 
of  Jim;  there  was  nowhere  anybody  just  like  him. 

A  Devil  River  cattle  and  sheep  ranchman  in 
Texas,  Jim  had  got  rich  at  the  business,  very  rich. 
That  means  that  he  had  more  grit  and  courage  than 
another  man;  that  he  had  laughed  at  hardship, 
privation  and  loneliness,  "  stayed  with  "  the  sheep 
through  good  and  bad  luck,  in  all  weathers  and  all 
sorts  of  seasons,  lodging  and  faring  pretty  much  as 
they  lodge  and  fare  —  under  the  open  skies ;  and 
that  this  unflinching  pluck  and  persistence  had 
earned  their  reward. 

He  was  twenty-eight  or  thirty  years  old,  big, 
handsome  like  some  prehistoric  royalty,  bluff,  kind, 
entirely  fearless,  generous,  a  little  quick  to  anger, 
but  more  quickly  reconciled,  and  making  haste  to 
claim  the  greater  share  of  fault. 

I  always  thought  Jim's  mind  belonged  properly 
to  an  earlier  period  of  the  world;  simple,  childlike, 
direct,  forceful,  he  would  have  shone  splendidly  as 
a  Saxon  king.  He  had  just  the  qualities  for  a  mon- 
arch of  the  stalwart  order.  It  was  indicated  no 
less  by  his  physical  beauty,  superiority  and  courage, 
than  by  the  perfectly  natural  way  in  which  he  had 
taken  to  purple,  fine  linen,  and  all  sorts  of  glorious 
pomp  and  circumstances  upon  meeting  them.  No, 
there  was  certainly  nothing  like  him  in  size,  style 
and  spirit,  even  in  Washington,  from  the  ineffable 
cock  of  the  expressive  soft  hat,  the  great  shoulders, 
squared  in  entirely  natural  and  unconscious  com- 
mand, beneath  his  fashionable  garments,  to  the 
well-gloved  hands  crossed  nonchalantly  behind  him» 


«f»      The  Battle  of  the  Sovereigns    «$»    149 

So  I  went  quietly  up,  touched  his  arm,  and 
said,  as  if  continuing  a  recently  interrupted  conver- 
sation, "  And  when  did  they  run  you  out  of  the 
Devil  River  country,  Jim  ?  " 

He  turned  his  big  handsome  face  and  leonine 
front  upon  me.  The  light  of  recognition  broke 
over  him;  he  lunged  at  me  like  a  grizzly,  grabbed 
me  with  both  great  paws,  then  abruptly  dropped 
me,  drew  back  haughtily,  and  angrily  brushed  the 
sleeve  I  had  touched. 

"  Oh,  you  make  me  tired !  "  he  announced.  "  Here 
I  come  to  Washington  in  the  interest  of  the  Western 
sheep  fellows,  just  loaded  down  to  the  guards  with 
authority,  and  all  the  '  stuff  '  I  want,  to  see  that  Con- 
gress does  us  right  in  —  well" — (in  disdainful 
recognition  of  my  inferior  sex)  "  in  certain  matters 
—  yes,  by  George,  and  to  snatch  'em  bald-headed 
if  they  don't!  And  blest  if  you  don't  come 
along,  a  little  thing  size  of  my  fist,  talking  right  up  to 
me  same  as  you  always  did,  just  like  I  was  common 
folks !  I  never  could  get  any  respect  into  you  —  nor 
out  of  you.  You've  got  no  sort  of  savey.  '  Jim ! ' 
*  Mr.  Baxter,'  if  you  please.  Say !  Where  you 
going  ?  Can't  I  go,  too  ?  I  haven't  anything  partic- 
ular to  do  till  six  o'clock." 

I  did  not  say  how  glad  I  was  to  have  him  "  go 
too."  On  principle,  I  only  gave  a  dignified  permis- 
sion, and  immediately  took  him  to  call  upon  Miss 
Salem. 

We  talked  much  upon  the  way,  and  my  soul  was 
renewed.  For  Jim  was  ever  as  wholesome  and  re- 
freshing as  the  air  of  his  own  Texas  plains.  Indeed, 
this  little  visit  with  him  was  like  the  breath  of  the 
gulf  breeze  itself. 


150         «$>         The  Last  Word  «f» 

We  found  Miss  Salem  at  home,  and  alone;  and 
I  was  never  more  pleased  with  my  own  Judgment 
in  bringing  two  people  together. 

To  our  hostess's  rather  stereotyped  inquiries  as  to 
how  he  liked  Washington,  Jim  said,  "  Why,  it  seems 
to  me  a  little  like  a  drug-store  where  the  labels  have 
all  got  swapped.  I  mean,"  in  answer  to  our  looks 
of  inquiry,  "  that  the  finest-looking  men  I've  seen 
are  nobody  in  particular.  And  then  a  fellow  comes 
shuffling  along  with  an  outfit  that  looks  as  thoughr 
his  friends  had  clothed  him  and  they  were  all  of 
'em  odd  sizes  one  way  or  another.  He'll  have  a  face 
like  an  early  rose  potato,  and  they  will  tell  you  that 
he  is  the  mainest  person  in  Washington." 

"  I  have  noticed  something  like  that,"  smiled  Miss 
Salem.  "  It  follows  the  law  of  compensation." 

"  Maybe,"  agreed  Jim.  "  It  just  looked  like 
swapped  brands  to  me.  Senator  Randolph,  and  his 
father,  Chief  Justice  Randolph,  are  almost  the  only 
men  I've  seen  who  look  their  parts." 

Miss  Salem  thereupon  rather  surprised  me  by 
giving  Jim  an  invitation  to  a  reception  at  the  house 
of  Chief  Justice  Randolph.  He  was  an  uncle  of 
Francis  Randolph,  and  we  had  been  twice  enter- 
tained at  his  home. 

Jim  accepted  the  invitation,  and  added,  "  I  am 
going  to  dinner  at  his  son's  house  that  same  evening. 
Mr.  Champe  Randolph,  the  Senator  from  Virginia, 
is  chairman  of  the  committee  I'm  worrying  to  death; 
and  he  seems  never  to  get  enough  of  me." 

"  Then  we  meet  you  at  dinner  also.  The  Champe 
Randolphs  make  their  home  with  the  Chief  Justice 
while  Congress  is  in  session,"  explained  Miss  Salem, 
"  and  Miss  West  and  I  are  dining  there  Wednesday." 


«9»      The  Battle  of  the  Sovereigns    «$»    151 

To  me,  later,  she  said,  "  I  gave  the  invitation  to 
the  reception  because  I  can  see  how  Mr.  Baxter's 
point  of  view  will  be  invaluable  to  you  in  your  work. 
You  play  at  being  a  bit  naive  and  Western ;  but  he 
really  is  —  and  so  charmingly  expansive  about  it." 

This  was  an  epitome  of  Miss  Salem's  ability.  She 
could  help  others  to  do  things  which  she  did  not  — 
could  not  —  herself  attempt.  An  infallible  judge 
of  the  best  in  literature,  many  a  book  upon  the 
Salem  Publishing  Company's  list  owed  its  inception, 
and  even  much  of  its  subsequent  treatment,  to  her 
editorial  acumen. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

In   The  Chamber  of  Echoes 

"  I  see  a  voice  :  now  will  I  to  the  chink, 
To  spy  if  I  can  hear  my  Thisbe's  face." 

IF  a  man  who  hath  once  seen  the  light  —  a  man 
to  whom  the  true  gods  have  come,  in  the  silence 
of  his  inner  life,  and  made  him  their  own  —  fall 
thereafter  into  sin  and  into  the  making  of  graven 
images,  to  prostrate  himself  before  them  and  wor- 
ship them,  such  an  one's  punishment  shall  be  greater 
than  that  of  another. 

I  had,  till  the  coming  of  Francis  Randolph,  wooed 
the  muse  with  a  single  heart.  Pure  English  had 
been  to  me  as  pleasant  waters,  and  the  using  of  it 
to  ends  of  some  importance,  as  daily  bread. 

According  to  my  definition  of  the  word,  I  was 
"  good  "  all  the  time  I  was  in  New  York.  Except- 
ing the  small  and  temporary  aberration  of  my  hated 
labours  on  the  big  book,  my  conduct  as  a  citizen  and 
a  worker  was  satisfactory.  I  fled  temptation,  and 
was  wise  in  season;  doing  only  those  things  which 
pleased  me,  and  thereby  grasping  the  reward  of 
virtue  (a  present  content)  in  simplest  fashion. 

Now,  suddenly,  because  my  heart  ached  whenever 
my  eyes  beheld  a  certain  person,  I  faced  about  upon 

my  ideals,  kicked  them  out  at  door,  and  announced 

152 


/ 

«f>       In  The  Chamber  of  Echoes    «$»    153 

myself  ready  to  gad  about  to  foolish  functions,  and 
describe  them  —  not  in  my  own  fashion,  but  with 
the  fulsomeness  of  a  Jenkins.  So  much  Mr.  De 
Witt  had  led  me  to  see  was  required,  and  so  much 
I  was  mortgaged  to  do. 

Miss  Salem  had  a  beautiful  summer  home  in  the 
New  England  village  where  she  was  born,  a  house 
in  New  York,  and  an  apartment  here,  so  that  she 
might  comfortably  divide  her  winters  between  the 
two  cities  most  important  in  the  syndicate  service 
of  the  Salem  Publishing  Company. 

Her  parlours  were  thronged;  there  was  always 
something  of  a  festive  social,  literary  or  official 
nature  afoot  which  she  thought  it  would  be  dis- 
astrous for  me  to  miss.  She  laid  snares  for  my 
feet  —  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world  —  and 
I  finally  gave  up  trying  to  keep  out  of  them. 

I  went  on  from  Miss  Salem  and  Miss  Salem's 
friends  to  Miss  Salem's  dressmaker.  I  graduated 
from  occasional  recreation  into  dissipation  and 
prodigality.  Oh,  yes,  I  must  have  "  two  coats 
and  everything  handsome  about  me." 

I  wasted  my  substance  —  my  strictly  limited 
substance  —  upon  riotous  evening  gowns  and  Eng- 
lishy  driving  wraps.  The  deep  emotions  of  my 
heart,  the  inspired  labours  cf  my  fertile  brain  and 
nimble  fancy,  I  gave  to  nice  questions  concerning 
the  relative  merits  and  usefulness  of  gorgeous  passe- 
menteries and  plain  tailor  finishes. 

And  what  had  I  for  my  sins?  A  nineteenth 
century  version  (perversion)  of  a  Louis  Quinze 
coat,  with  (I  said  it  in  deep  humiliation,  almost  in 
tears)  a  Medicis  collar,  leg-o'-mutton  sleeves  cov- 
•ered  with  jet  nail-heads  —  in  short,  a  sort  of  dress- 


154        «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

maker's  French  Revolution  in  tissue  and  beads  and 
silk. 

When  I  lifted  this  monstrosity  from  its  box,  my 
key-cold  ringers  relaxed  and  dropped  the  thing  upon 
a  couch.  I  stood  before  it  —  a  garment  so  much 
worse-looking  than  merely  an  old  or  a  poor  dress  — 
in  deep  abasement  and  mortification  of  soul.  Ma- 
dame Schwalben's  smile  was  as  false  as  her  hair 
and  her  teeth;  the  whole  fabric  of  Madame's  walk 
and  conversation  was  an  ancient  and  carelessly  con- 
structed fraud,  like  her  complexion.  Through  the 
odour  of  her  perfumes,  various  and  potent  as  they 
were,  the  raw  onion  ever  spoke  remindingly,  even 
as,  through  all  her  pretence  of  elegance  and  refine- 
ment, untamable  native  vulgarity  pushed  forward. 
What  hypnotism,  then,  what  black  magic,  had 
enabled  her  to  thrust  upon  a  freeborn  citizen  (here 
I  slapped  my  chest  with  my  open  palm)  a  fit 
example  of  Lone  Star  gallantry,  and  withal  a  person 
of  brains  and  experience  —  a  thing  (and  here  I 
smote  my  forehead  with  my  clenched  fist)  like  — 
that? 

When  the  tooth  of  remorse  was  deepest  in  my 
liver,  it  happened  that  Miss  Salem  called.  She  ex- 
pressed some  surprise  at  the  air  of  settled  gloom 
with  which  I  regarded  my  acquisition,  and  inquired 
innocently  as  to  whether  or  no  I  liked  my  dress 
which  Madame  had  just  sent  in. 

"  Fate  —  or  Providence  —  "  said  I,  severely, 
"  has  seemed  to  neglect  the  justice  of  this  case.  It 
has  apparently  looked  idly  on,  or  paid  attention  to 
something  else,  while  this  woman,  a  servant,  a 
barbarian,  a  mere  outsider,  has  impudently  com- 
mitted her  remunerative  iniquities  —  " 


<Q>       In  The  Chamber  of  Echoes    «9»    155 

"  Oh,  you  did  not  like  the  dress,"  murmured  Miss 
Salem,  comprehendingly.  "  You  feel  put  out  at 
Madame." 

"  I  do  not  suffer  myself  to  remain  in  impatience," 
I  returned,  with  dignity,  "  nor  to  be  really  de- 
ceived upon  the  matter.  Such  crimes  —  " 

"  You  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  poor  Madame," 
laughed  Miss  Salem,  indulgently.  "  Blame  yourself 
a  little.  She  makes  very  nice  frocks  for  me.  I 
fancy  you  rather  flew  to  her  head.  Commissioned 
to  clothe  a  figure  like  yours,  my  young  willow-wand 
princess,  she  experienced  a  rush  of  the  divine  afflatus 
without  being,  in  fact,  a  poet  —  and  the  result  is 
hybrid." 

"  No,"  I  agreed,  "  she  is  certainly  not  a  poet." 

"  You  are  cruel,"  protested  Miss  Salem. 

When  I  was  really  in  earnest  about  things,  Miss 
Salem  found  me  great  fun. 

"  I  am  anything  but  cruel,"  I  assured  her. 
"  Previous  to  this  dressmaker  episode,  I  should  have 
described  my  character  as  wanting  even  that  small 
amount  of  severity  requisite  to  entire  justice.  But 
my  eyes  are  now  open.  I  see  myself  (and  with  joy) 
to  be  the  sort  of  pickle  in  whose  composition  the 
saving  ginger  has  not  been  spared.  I  tell  you,  my 
dear  Miss  Salem,  it  does  my  heart  and  my  soul 
and  my  digestion,  my  diaphragm  and  my  morals,  all 
good  to  think  how  Fate  will  meet  up  with  Madame 
for  such  tricks." 

Miss  Salem's  sweet  face  became  serious. 
"  Wasn't  that  your  dinner  dress  for  Wednesday  ?  " 
she  asked,  apprehensively.  And  then  she  took  the 
structure  up  and  examined  its  warring  factions  of 


156         «9»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

ornament,  making  little  soft  inarticulate  sounds  of 
surprise  or  reproach  over  its  absurdities. 

"  Why,  this  will  never  do  at  all,"  she  mourned, 
"  and  the  dinner  is  to-morrow  night !  " 

"  I  can  wear  my  old  white/'  I  answered,  easily. 

"  Oh.  no,"  objected  Miss  Salem.  "  I  am  to  be 
in  white,  and  "  —  with  one  of  her  rare  little  flashes 
—  "  it  is  a  new  frock,  and  rather  particularly  gor- 
geous. No,  you  shall  still  be  in  pink  —  as  we 
planned.  How  about  the  skirt  to  this  strait- 
jacket?" 

For  answer,  I  held  up  the  long,  shimmering  folds 
of  soft  purplish  pink,  with  its  mere  hinting  under- 
tone of  the  rhododendron,  flattering  the  eye,  as  two 
related  notes  in  music  charm  the  ear,  with  harmony. 

"  Oh  —  why  —  that  will  be  all  right,"  Miss  Salem 
declared.  "  Just  have  several  skirts  made  of  that 
lighter  pink  tissue  —  it  can  be  done  in  two  hours  — 
each  with  its  little  feathery  frill.  You  will  look 
like  a  big  blush  rose."  (Frank's  very  words  —  how 
they  pained !)  "  There  is  the  little  plain  low  bodice, 
and  Madame  shall  come  up  and  drape  it  with  the 
tissue  after  you  have  it  on.  Yes,  you'll  be  a  blush 
rose." 

Again  the  flower  of  wounding  memory.  Wash- 
ington —  as  a  place  of  refuge  from  pursuing  heart- 
aches —  fell  something  short  of  the  Barcan  desert, 
or  the  Oregonian  woods.  I  might  have  known,  I 
reflected,  that  all  running  away  is  futile,  that  life's 
problems  follow  life  like  its  own  shadow;  and  I 
turned  from  Miss  Salem  with  a  sigh. 

She  laughed,  "  Pray,  do  not  look  so  blue  over 
it.  I  assure  you  it  is  an  honour  to  have  Madame 
come  and  drape  you,  and  she  does  it  exquisitely. 


«8»       In  The  Chamber  of  Echoes    «$»    157 

She  draped  me  —  just  twenty  years  ago  this  winter 
-  for  my  first  big  official  function  in  Washington. 
She  will  do  it,  if  I  ask  her." 

Miss  Salem  was  pleased  at  the  ardent  interest  I 
expressed  in  this  far-away  frock  and  occasion. 

"  I  was  my  father's  housekeeper,"  she  told  me, 
"  and  I  had  no  chaperone,  so  Mrs.  Randolph  (the 
present  Chief  Justice  was  a  Supreme  Judge  then) 
introduced  me  at  a  —  well,  a  party  —  a  German, 
I  believe  it  was.  We  did  not  have  teas  for  that 
purpose  so  much  in  those  days,  and  an  evening 
reception  with  dancing  was  quite  the  thing." 

"Don't  you  love  to  dance!"  I  exclaimed. 

"  I  used  to.  I  remember  I  was  quite  wild  with 
joy  that  night.  I  told  you  Madame  draped  my 
bodice.  We  wore  skirts  ruffled  to  the  waist.  That 
doesn't  sound  pretty;  but  mine  was  filmy  white, 
edged  everywhere  with  crystal  bugles,  and  it  was 
pretty  and  becoming.  My  cheeks  were  almost  as 
pink  as  yours,  and  I  felt  like  a  fairy." 

I  had  received  that  morning  a  letter  from  Bush- 
rod  Floyd.  It  began  without  address : 

"  You  did  not  give  me  permission  to  write  you, 
but  you  would  have  done  so  had  I  asked  it. 

"  That  is  rank  presumption  —  isn't  it  ?  And  yet 
I  am  sure  if  you  could  know  what  a  howling  wilder- 
ness and  desert  the  office  looks  without  your  sunny 
face  to  shine  on  it  once  in  awhile,  you  would  for- 
give me  for  trying,  as  a  poor  substitute  for  the  sight 
of  you  and  the  sound  of  you,  to  write  you  one  letter. 

"  DeWitt  is  away,  looking  after  some  contracts 
in  Boston.  He  left  Texas  in  my  care,  and  we  — 
Texas  and  I  —  hold  long,  serious-minded  conversa- 


158         ^         The  Last  Word  <*> 

tions  about  you.  We  think,  for  one  thing,  that  you 
are  not  happy  over  there  in  Washington  (where 
we  cannot  see  you),  doing  those  society  letters  which 
we  know  you  loathe  —  though,  ourselves,  we  greatly 
delight  in  them,  and  declare  them  less  like  society 
letters  and  more  like  literature  than  anything  either 
of  us  ever  saw  in  a  newspaper  column. 

"  We  wonder  —  Texas  and  I  —  why  you  went 
there;  but  the  movements  of  the  stars  are  past 
finding  out  to  a  fellow  who  can  only  lie  on  his  back 
in  the  dark  and  look  up  to  and  worship  them. 

"  Miss  Bucks  gave  me  your  last  letter  to  her 
to  read.  Miss  Bucks  is  not  a  handsome  angel,  but 
I  could  see  the  wing-tips,  nevertheless.  Poor  girl! 
A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wondrous  keen-sighted 
sometimes,  as  well  as  kind !  I  find  I  have  neglected 
Miss  Bucks.  The  fact  of  you  throws  a  new  light 
upon  her,  as  it  has  upon  everything  else  in  my  life. 
I  suppose,  in  our  selfish  gloom,  we  are  often  missing 
things  which  might  help  us  out ;  but  I  shall  not  miss 
Miss  Bucks  any  more.  I  have  looked  at  her  with 
new  eyes.  I  have  seen  her  descending  from  heaven, 
your  letter  in  hand,  and  to  me  she  is  forever 
glorified. 

"  Even  Frank  feels  the  gloom  which  has  enveloped 
the  shop  without  you,  and  is  savage  to  a  degree 
heretofore  unknown.  Corcoran  says  that  there  are 
vague  and  terrible  threats  of  your  remaining  some 
time  —  I  will  not  say  permanently,  though  that  was 
his  word.  I  will  not  set  it  down,  lest  it  come  true. 

"  I  wonder  how  many  times  you  have  thought  of 
the  office  amid  the  scenes  of  grandeur  which  you 
are  now  gracing  —  to  put  the  thing  up  in  regular 
society  letter  style.  And,  if  you  have  thought  of 


^       In  The  Chamber  of  Echoes    «$»    159 

the  office  at  all,  I  wonder  if  the  figure  of  a  fat  old 
fellow  over  in  the  corner  (who  looks  up  expectantly 
when  the  door  opens  and  looks  down  dejectedly 
every  time  it  isn't  you  who  open  it),  is  part  of 
the  thing  for  you. 

"  I  consign  you,  with  this,  about  'steen  lines  of 
verse.  If  you  don't  like  to  read  'em,  come  back 
from  Washington  and  defend  yourself. 

"  Always  devotedly  yours, 

"  BUSHROD  FLOYD." 

The  letter's  presentment  might  have  been  de- 
scribed as  de  luxe.  Its  little  square  of  tiny- 
charactered  matter  occupied  less  page  space  than 
the  wide  margins,  and  upon  these  latter  were  the 
most  delicious  bits  of  sketches;  Texas  and  its 
writer,  sitting  at  the  solemn  talks;  Miss  Bucks  (an 
excellent  portrait,  with  but  the  wings  added)  de- 
scending from  the  clouds ;  a  sketch  of  Frank,  scowl- 
ing as  he  rejected  one  of  his  cousin's  drawings; 
Mr.  Corcoran  at  his  desk,  with  Texas  beside  him 
begging  for  sweets,  —  a  familiar  group. 

This  marginalia  brought  the  office  up  so  vividly 
before  me,  that  I  handed  the  letter  to  Miss  Salem. 
"  There  are  some  things  in  it  which  might  interest 
you,"  I  remarked,  carelessly,  and  turned  once  more 
to  that  hopeless  coat. 

She  was  a  long  time  silent,  looking  over  the 
letter;  then  I  felt  her  touch  upon  my  arm,  and 
turned  to  find  her  beautiful  dark  eyes  shining  with 
tears.  "  Poor  fellow !  "  she  murmured.  "  Poor 
Bushrod  Floyd!  It  is  his  luck  to  know  the  better 
and  to  choose  the  worse  —  or  rather,  to  let  the 
worse  choose  him." 


160         «f»         The  Last  Word  <& 

I  put  back  the  letter,  with  an  uneasy  twinge. 
"  Oh,  you  take  him  too  seriously,"  I  objected.  "  He 
has  always  adopted  that  chaffing,  sentimental  tone 
with  me  —  it  doesn't  mean  anything." 

"Doesn't  it?"  inquired  Miss  Salem,  a  little 
absently.  Then  she  added,  with  sweet  gentleness, 
"  I  have  not  only  lived  longer  than  you,  my  dear, 
but  I  have  known  Bushrod  Floyd  longer.  His 
cousin,  Mr.  Randolph  —  " 

I  winced  inwardly,  and  so  I  moved  impatiently. 
She  looked  at  me  and  hesitated,  then  went  on, 

"  They  are  as  much  alike  as  black  and  white.  I 
should  never  think  of  defending  Francis  Randolph 
from  a  woman,"  and  she  smiled  a  bit  humourously 
at  the  suggestion. 

"  Well,  dear  me !  the  other  one  flirts  with 
everything  that  comes  along,  doesn't  he?"  I  re- 
sponded. "  He  literally  flows  with  sentiment." 

"  No,"  demurred  Miss  Salem,  "  there  is  a  differ- 
ence. There  is  a  distinction  to  be  drawn;  a  fine 
one,  but  then,  Bushrod  Floyd's  nature  is  fine,  almost 
feminine;  and  the  distinctions  in  it  are  delicate. 
He  is,  as  you  say,  peculiarly  accessible  to  the  influ- 
ence of  women.  Any  girl  who  cares  to  can  make 
love  to  him,  and  he  will  respond ;  I  suppose  he  would 
respond  very  readily  —  and  carelessly.  But  that  he 
should  find  strength  in  his  slothful  nature,  fire 
among  his  ashes,  to  come  forward  and  take  the 
initiative,  —  it  is  this  that  is  more  than  touching 
to  me.  It  is  tragic." 

My  mind  went  back  over  the  history  of  my  ac- 
quaintance with  the  man,  and  it  misgave  me  that 
she  was  right.  With  what  strangely  childlike 
naivete  had  he  advanced  from  jesting  lightness  to 


«9»       In  The  Chamber  of  Echoes    «9»    161 

a  more  serious  tone.  In  quaint  contrast  with  the 
physical  man  was  this  virginal  freshness  of  feeling. 
Did  not  his  inches  and  his  years  make  the  compari- 
son absurd,  one  would  have  said  that  he  was  as 
timid  in  such  matters  as  a  young  girl. 

"  I  wish  you  had  not  said  that,"  I  fretted.  "  My 
state  is  none  too  blissful  anyhow,  this  morning. 
Whenever  I  attempt  to  write,  there  strikes  through 
me,  from  my  middle  shirt-stud  to  a  spot  between  my 
shoulder-blades,  a  sensation  (it  isn't  a  pain  exactly) 
as  though  Despair's  hard  glove  had  laid  a  most 
ungentle  tap  upon  my  solar  plexus;  and  thereupon 
that  great  sub-station  answers  with  a  groan  that 
shivers  along  all  its  miles  of  wires." 

Miss  Salem  was  unexpectedly  firm  with  me. 
"  Pretty  young  women  who  go  about  the  world 
casting  their  beaux'  yeux  upon  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions of  men  shall  never  lack  for  such  information 
as  I  can  give  them,"  she  maintained.  "  It  may 
amuse  you  to  put  the  comether  upon  Bushrod  Floyd, 
but  indeed  it  is  not  kind  —  I  do  not  wonder  there 
is  an  ache  under  your  middle  shirt-stud  at  the 
results." 

"  There  isn't,"  I  retorted,  indignantly.  "  If  I  had 
never  done  anything  worse  than  be  pleasant  to 
poor  Bushrod  Floyd,  I  should  not  have  heartache, 
and  headache.  It  is  the  thought  of  Mr.  DeWitt 
that  is  troubling  me." 

I  looked  up  to  find  a  most  curious  expression  upon 
my  caller's  face.  "  Justin  DeWitt,"  she  repeated. 
"  Is  he  —  do  you  —  " 

She  halted,  and  I  broke  in,  "  Oh,  he's  all  that  is 
kind  and  patient  with  the  slow,  the  blundering  — 
he  will  even  forgive  stupidity.  But  with  the  un- 


1 62         <Q>        The  Last  Word  ^» 

ready,  the  of-laziness-suspected,  I've  found  his 
temper  brief,  brief  as  first  love,  and  crisp  as  a  Sara- 
toga chip.  I  tell  you  it  is  uncontinuing,  sudden, 
unsure,  fragile !  " 

"  He  is  wonderfully  clever,"  was  Miss  Salem's 
somewhat  irrelevant  comment. 

"  He  is  clever  enough  to  know  what  ails  the  copy 
I  haven't  sent  in,"  I  replied.  He  will  be  well 
aware  that  I  have  clothed  myself  in  soft  raiment,  and 
danced  and  sung  and  made  merry  with  the  idle  and 
the  ungodly,  revolving  blithely  round  the  savoury 
fieshpots  of  Egypt,  while  the  tasks  I  forbore  grew 
like  the  evil  genius  of  the  bottle." 

Miss  Salem  was  always  helpful,  and  I  am  sure 
the  cleverest  creature  to  plan  work  of  any  non-writ- 
ing person  I  ever  knew.  It  seemed  to  me  now 
that  a  certain  relief  added  alacrity  to  the  aid  she 
lent  me. 

"  The  coupe  is  waiting,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am 
going  to  take  you  to  the  Capitol  to  do  the  hall  of 
echoes.  It  will  fill  out  your  letter  about  the  homes 
of  Cabinet  ministers  very  nicely." 

I  went  meekly  for  my  hat  and  note-book. 

Arrived  at  the  Capitol,  Miss  Salem  found  one 
particular  guide  who  she  said  knew  the  echoes 
better  than  any  other,  and  had  him  to  show  us  about. 
Of  those  wonderful  echoes,  I  only  recall  two,  be- 
cause they  concerned  themselves  in  my  affairs. 

The  guide  first  placed  me  on  a  certain  square  of 
marble  in  the  tessellated  floor,  and  going  back  a 
hundred  feet  or  more,  stood  facing  toward  me, 
when  suddenly  his  voice,  tremendously  magnified, 
came  down  out  of  the  dome  and  enveloped  me  in  its 
sonorousness.  Every  word  seemed  to  wrap  me 


«$»       In  The  Chamber  of  Echoes   «$»    163 

about,  so  enormous  were  the  tones,  yet  not  even 
Miss  Salem,  three  feet  away  from  me,  heard  a 
sound  of  them,  and  people  passed  all  about  me 
without  so  much  as  looking  up. 

The  other  echo  that  remains  in  my  memory,  that 
one  to  display  which  the  guide  set  me  very  carefully 
upon  a  square  near  one  of  the  entrances,  and  taking 
Miss  Salem,  went  so  far  away  that  I  could  only  see 
them  fairly,  and,  in  the  surrounding  movement  and 
talk,  could  scarcely  have  heard  them  in  a  Yazoo  yell. 

After  a  moment,  a  whisper  of  Miss  Salem's  voice 
came  vaguely  stealing  up  about  my  feet  from  beneath 
the  marble  floor. 

I  stood  there  listening  to  this  gentle  ghost  of 
her  voice  conveying  to  my  ear  tender  nothings  con- 
cerning what  we  were  to  have  for  lunch.  The 
little  vocal  ghost  left  off  for  a  moment,  when  sud- 
denly came  Frank's  tones,  those  unforgettable,  un- 
forgotten,  wooing  tones,  "  Carita,  beloved,  are  you 
tired  of  quarrelling  with  me?"  they  said.  "Are 
you  ready,  as  I  am,  to  forget  it?" 

The  voice  whispered  and  plead  about  my  knees. 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  leaped  with  a  curious  flut- 
tering movement  as  though  it  had  clapped  its  wings. 
I  could  not,  for  my  life,  have  uttered  one  word. 

I  knew,  of  course,  that  he  was  standing  across 
there  on  the  stone  that  was  twin  of  mine  whispering 
to  me.  The  thought  that  he  had  cared  enough  to 
follow  me  to  Washington  was  very  sweet.  He 
always  cared  more  than  he  expressed;  he  always 
did  more  than  he  said.  The  haughtiest,  proudest 
nature  I  have  ever  known,  and  the  most  self-willed, 
he  desired  to  have  the  thing  he  wanted  offered  him. 
And  yet,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  having  tried 


164         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

vainly  to  put  me  in  the  position  of  suitor,  he  often 
took  the  part  himself  with  sudden  and  sweet 
humility. 

I  was  silent  so  long  that  the  whisper  came  again. 
"  Dearest,  how  lovely  you  look,"  it  breathed.  "  I 
can  see  you  past  all  these  people."  Then,  for  the 
first  time,  I  thought  to  look  over,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  graceful,  endearing  dark  head, 
prayerfully  bent,  as  he  stood  whispering  to  me. 

"  You  won't  answer  me,"  he  went  on.  "  Are  you 
afraid  to?  Are  there  people  standing  near  you? 
They  will  not  hear.  Well,  put  up  your  hand  to  your 
hair  if  —  if  it  is  '  yes.' ' 

My  hand  rose  almost  without  my  volition.  "  The 
dear  little  white  toiler,"  came  Frank's  vibrant 
tones,  "  The  blessed  flag  of  truce."  And  there  rose 
from  the  stone  at  my  feet  a  sort  of  sigh,  made,  I 
fancy,  by  the  passing  across  its  twin  of  his  boot, 
and  in  a  minute  or  two  more  his  voice  said  rather 
breathlessly  behind  my  shoulder,  "  Miss  Salem  says 
I  am  to  take  you  over  to  her." 

On  our  way  across,  we  passed  the  stone  where 
1  had  heard  the  big  enveloping  voice.  Striving  for 
some  commonplace  topic  to  converse  upon,  I  told 
Frank  of  it. 

"  Wait  a  moment !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  shining 
eyes.  "  Oh,  here  come  Miss  Salem  and  the  guide. 
Will  you  two  ladies  please  remain  here  while  he 
shows  me  where  I  should  be  to  communicate  with 
you." 

I  was  left  standing  with  my  face  to  the  great  en- 
trance and  the  clock,  Miss  Salem  smiling  beside,  but 
not  too  near  me.  Suddenly,  down  from  the  dome 
came  a  torrent  of  melody  and  love,  Frank's  wonder- 
ful voice,  magnified  till  it  filled  —  the  universe. 


«$»       In  The  Chamber  of  Echoes    «$»    165 

"  Carita  —  Carita !  "  it  called  to  me.  "  What  a 
beautiful  name  you  have.  I  catch  myself  repeating 
it  all  day  long,  as  if  it  were  a  bit  of  poetry,  or  a 
song,  or  a  spell  to  conjure  by.  And  it  is  all  three 
to  me,  love.  Have  you  forgiven  me?  " 

I  glanced  guiltily  around,  and  Miss  Salem  laugh- 
ingly shook  her  head.  "  I  hear  only  a  jumble  of 
sounds,"  she  reassured  me.  "  And  he  could  not 
hear  you,  if  you  were  to  shout." 

Then  came  the  great  voice  again,  wrapping  me 
about  with  the  very  panoply  of  Love  itself.  "  Why 
did  you  not  answer  me  when  I  stood  where  you 
might  have  spoken?  "  it  questioned.  "  You  are  an 
angel,  and  you  have  the  tongue  of  an  angel.  I 
should  have  understood  exactly  whatever  you  had 
said.  Even  the  little  flag  of  truce  was  almost  too 
good  to  be  true." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

"  Through   the   Seventh   Gate " 

"  These  are  blind  fancies  —  reason  cannot  know 
What  sense  can  neither  feel,  nor  thought  conceive." 

IT  was  arranged  that  my  dress  should  be  sent 
directly  to  Miss  Salem's  apartment,  and  that  I 
should  go  there  to  dress  for  the  Randolph  dinner. 
I  was  in  that  uncertain,  fluctuating  mind,  a  mood 
vibrating  between  half-drugged  pain  and  half- 
awakened  bliss,  which  always  followed  upon  a 
reconciliation  with  Frank. 

I  found  Miss  Salem  already  dressed,  looking 
unbelievably  tall  and  stately  and  handsome  in  her 
long  clinging  dinner-gown  of  lustreless  white  silk, 
with  clasp  and  girdle  of  dull  silver,  "  which  just 
match,"  she  said,  "  those  unkind  little  ornaments 
that  Time  is  threading  on  my  temples." 

I  laughed  incredulously  at  the  thought  of  there 
being  any  silver  in  her  dark  hair.  "  Why  did  you 
dress  so  early?"  I  inquired. 

"  To  get  unimportant  me  out  of  the  way,"  she 
told  me,  "  so  that  I  might  try  a  not  altogether  un- 
skilled hand  at  making  you  beautiful." 

The  box  from  Madame's  had  come  up  earlier,  and 
by  the  time  that  lady  herself  arrived  I  was  mani- 
cured, coiffured,  and  gotten  into  the  pink  silk  with 

166 


«f»      "  Through  the  Seventh  Gate  "  «$»  167 

its  floating  gauzy  overlays.  These,  shifting  about 
me,  fascinated  my  eyes  with  wonderful  hints  of 
sunset  cloud  effects. 

Madame  brought  with  her  some  extra  yards  of 
the  pink  tissue,  a  gross  of  coral-headed  pins,  and.  an 
air  of  grave  preoccupation.  For  ten  minutes  after 
her  arrival,  I  was  turned,  discussed,  pulled  this  way 
and  that,  and  had  pins  thrust  into  me  as  though 
I  had  been  a  sawdust-stuffed  doll  instead  of  the 
living  sort,  till  I  arrived  at  a  very  appropriately 
low  estimate  of  my  importance. 

At  the  end  of  that  time,  Miss  Salem  said,  in 
agreement  with  the  twentieth  repetition  of  an  asser- 
tion of  Madame's,  "  Yes,  there  must  be  something; 
we  need  a  little  sparkle  —  some  ornaments."  And 
she  added,  standing  back  from  me  and  looking  at 
me  through  narrowed  eyes,  exactly  as  though  I 
were  any  other  work  of  art,  "  Cara,  would  you 
wear  some  corals  of  mine?" 

I  was  not  expected  to  reply.  Madame  promptly 
answered  for  me,  and  with  much  satisfaction,  "  The 
very  thing.  Get  them  at  once,  please,  Miss  Salem. 
We're  late." 

When  the  corals  were  laid  out  on  the  dressing- 
table,  they  fairly  made  me  gasp.  There  was  truly 
some  coral  about  them;  but  there  were  more  dia- 
monds than  anything  else.  "  Oh,  I  couldn't !  "  I 
began,  impulsively.  "  These  are  much  too  beau- 
tiful and  valuable.  Why  do  you  never  wear  them, 
Miss  Salem?" 

For  the  first  time  since  I  had  known  her,  Miss 
Salem  looked  at  me  a  trifle  impatiently.  "  They 
would  be  much  better  on  your  pretty  neck  and  arms/' 
she  said,  "  than  lying  shut  up  in  a  box." 


i68         -^         The  Last  Word  «*• 

Her  pensive  eyes  drooped  to  the  glittering  orna- 
ments, and  her  slender  fingers  caressed  the  bosses 
of  soft  glowing  pink.  "  Do  you  know  how  often 
I  have  worn  these,  Cara  ?  "  she  asked,  a  little  sadly. 
"  Never  once.  Father  got  them  for  me,  that  first 
winter  I  was  in  Washington.  They  are  Florentine 
work.  Like  all  old-fashioned  people,  he  supposed 
a  dark-eyed  girl  should  wear  pink;  but  they  have 
always  been  very  unbecoming  to  me;  and  yet  I 
couldn't  bear  to  have  father's  gifts  broken  up  and 
reset.  Wear  them,  child.  The  corals  will  just 
match  your  cheeks  to-night,  and  I  am  sure  the 
diamonds  are  not  a  bit  brighter  than  those  big  eyes 
of  yours." 

While  Miss  Salem  and  I  were  talking  sentiment, 
Madame  had  been  busily  fastening  the  ornaments  in 
place,  exactly  as  though  there  had  been  from  the 
first  no  question  of  their  use.  Now  she  led  me 
toward  the  tall  mirror,  which  I  had  left  to  look  at 
the  jewels.  "  There,"  she  pronounced,  in  her  usual 
and  felicitous  fashion,  "  I  say  you  look  per- 
fectly elegant.  Those  jewels  are  swell  —  simply 
swell !  "  And  dropping  back  a  step  or  two,  she  left 
me,  rather  breathless  and  astonished,  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  that  new  Carrington  West  who 
looked  curiously  out  at  me  from  the  mirror. 

The  hair-dresser  had  said  that  she  did  not  care 
whether  my  coiffure  looked  like  short  hair  or  done-up 
hair.  She  asserted  with  confidence  that  she  would 
make  "  a  sort  of  compromision  "  of  it.  The  result 
was  a  few  soft  curling  locks  which  ran  into  what 
were  then  called  finger-puffs,  bound  and  fastened 
as  a  crest  upon  my  head  with  a  curious  ornament 
of  coral  and  diamonds  which  was  more  like  a  quaint, 


*»      "Through  the  Seventh  Gate"  <&  169 

shining  dagger  thrust  through  than  anything  else. 
Such  of  the  wayward  locks  as  chose  to  escape  and 
curl  about  my  neck  and  temples  were  left  unre- 
proved. 

Madame's  draping  was  indeed  perfection.  No 
bodice  sewed  in  seams  could  have  had  quite  the  in- 
effable "  cling  "  of  this  one  which  her  clever  fingers 
had  pinned  upon  me.  Excitement  had  made  good 
Miss  Salem's  comparison  between  my  eyes  and  the 
diamonds.  Taller  by  an  inch  than  even  her 
tall  self,  my  slenderness  sweetly  rippled  about  by 
skilfully  used  gauzes,  I  was  ready  to  answer  to 
my  hostess's  exultant  query,  "  Now  aren't  you  a 
beauty  ?  "  "  Well,  you  and  Madame  have  certainly 
made  me  one." 

We  were  going  down  to  the  carriage,  I  bearing 
the  great  sheaf  of  roses  which  had  come  with 
Francis  Randolph's  card  in  it,  when  we  met  a  mes- 
senger boy  with  another  box  of  flowers.  This  one 
had  followed  me  from  my  boarding-place,  the  sender 
evidently  not  knowing,  as  Frank  did,  that  I  was  to 
dress  at  Miss  Salem's.  Indeed,  there  was  nothing' 
to  indicate  who  the  sender  of  these  exquisite  orchids 
might  be. 

"  It  must  have  been  Jim,"  I  speculated,  as  I 
searched  through  the  papers  for  a  card.  "  He  knows 
I  often  wear  pink." 

But  Miss  Salem  murmured,  as  we  went  back  to 
the  room  and  added  a  few  of  the  gorgeous,  soulless, 
significant  blossoms  to  my  roses,  "  Bushrod  is  an 
extravagant  fellow." 

The  Randolph  house  is  a  little  out  of  Washing- 
ton; that  is,  it  stands  upon  one  of  those  hills  to 
the  west  of  the  city  where  there  were  stately  country 


170         «sg»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

homes  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago.  This  one  was 
built  by  Justice  Randolph's  uncle,  then  Secretary 
of  State.  Later,  it  had  passed  out  of  the  Randolph 
family  into  other  hands;  but  when  the  Judge  was 
called  to  the  Supreme  Court  he  repurchased  it,  and 
the  family  divided  their  time  between  it  and  the 
Virginia  plantation  upon  which  all  of  his  children 
were  born.  It  was  a  very  beautiful  and  imposing 
house,  whose  original  size  and  simplicity  had  been 
overlaid  from  year  to  year  with  modern  adornments 
and  utilities.  And  yet,  there  was  a  usage  about  its 
elegance,  a  wonted  air  about  its  most  stately  appoint- 
ments, which  is  sometimes  lacking  in  the  homes  of 
even  very  rich  Americans.  Everything  seemed  to 
say  to  you,  "  I  am  barely  good  enough  for  the  use 
of  my  owner."  In  other  words,  the  habitation  did 
not,  in  this  case,  lend  illustriousness  to  the  family; 
but  rather,  the  family  graced  their  habitation. 

I  was  always  astonished  to  find  myself  taller  than 
stately  little  Mrs.  Randolph.  When  she  entered  a 
room,  that  high-held  silver-white  head  of  hers 
seemed  ever  the  loftiest  in  it;  but  she  was,  in 
reality,  a  slender,  fragile  little  person,  who  might 
fairly  have  walked  under  my  arm.  She  and  her 
large  blonde  daughter-in-law  made  Miss  Salem  and 
myself  hospitably  welcome. 

"  We  four  are  to  be  the  only  Caucasian  women 
at  the  table,"  explained  Mrs.  Randolph.  "  We  have 
six  couples.  The  others  are  the  Japanese  minister 
and  his  wife — " 

I  flinched,  Miss  Salem  shrank  visibly,  and  Mrs. 
Randolph  hastened  to  add,  "  They  are  most  agreeable 
people.  Madame  Halsuko  is  especially  clever  and 
engaging.  Then  there  is,  Ali  Rustem  Bey,  the 


«$»      "  Through  the  Seventh  Gate"  «$»  171 

Turkish  ambassador;  and  as  Madame  Rustem  does 
not  attend  other  than  harem  affairs,  Rustem  Bey 
brings  his  private  secretary  in  place  of  his  wife." 

"  And  you  will  find  the  secretary  more  interesting 
than  the  ambassador,"  added  Justice  Randolph. 
"  Young  Tewfik  Bey  was  born  a  Turk ;  but  I  think 
he  has  lived  —  and  to  good  purpose  —  in  every 
country  on  the  globe.  If  there  is  an  actual  lan- 
guage which  he  does  not  speak,  it  must  belong  to 
some  western  tribe  of  Indians,  or  some  northern 
people  like  the  Eskimos.  His  enormous  utility  to 
Rustem  Bey  and  the  Turkish  government  is  his 
familiarity  with  all  Eastern  tongues  and  dialects." 

I  glanced  up  and  saw  Frank  in  the  doorway.  It  is 
not  a  test  of  a  man's  goodness  —  the  way  evening 
dress  becomes  him;  but  it  certainly  is  often  a 
touchstone  which  reveals  his  birth  and  breeding. 
Young  Mr.  Randolph  had  said  to  me,  laughingly, 
once  before,  that  his  mother  held  to  their  Virginia 
servants,  negroes  trained  on  the  Randolph  and 
Floyd  plantations,  because  it  made  it  so  easy  at  an 
evening  party  for  ladies  to  distinguish  the  waiters 
from  the  guests.  I  had  heard  the  jest  in  other  forms, 
and  truly  there  are  good  men  and  great  who  look 
like  waiters  —  and  not  head  waiters,  either  —  in 
their  evening  clothes. 

But  for  Frank,  I  had  never  seen  him  look  one 
half  so  graceful,  so  handsome,  so  perfect  as  he 
now  did,  coming  forward  to  greet  his  aunt,  Miss 
Salem,  his  cousin's  wife,  and  then  my  happy  self. 

I  saw,  by  the  way  his  pleased  eyes  lingered  on 
every  curl  and  ornament,  that  I  had  found  one  thing 
which  I  could  do  in  a  way  which  delighted  him. 

"  You  have  honoured  my  roses,"  he  said,  smiling 


172'        «?*         The  Last  Word  <& 

down  to  where  their  nodding  heads  lay  across  my 
arm. 

"  They  have  the  good  taste,"  I  answered,  gaily, 
"to  be  exactly  what  was  needed  for  the  finish  of 
my  costume.  It  was  lovely  of  you  to  know.  Thank 
you  so  much." 

"  Some  one  else  sent  you  orchids,"  he  added, 
touching  the  bit  of  air-nurtured,  gossamer  loveliness 
caught  in  among  the  rose  stems.  "  It  is  always 
roses  and  Cara,  to  me.  I  should  never  think  of 
orchids  —  unless  you  specially  fancy  them.  Do 
you?" 

This  was  Frank  at  his  sweetest.  He  sought  not 
only  to  give  me  what  he  deemed  fitting  and  appro- 
priate, but  that  which  I  preferred.  I  hastened  to 
say,  "  Oh,  no,  I  love  the  roses  best.  They  seem  to 
me  so  much  more  real  and  wholesome  and  natural." 
And  even  as  I  spoke,  the  pink  orchid  reproached  me 
with  its  elfin  and  ethereal  beauty,  and  I  heard  again 
Miss  Salem  murmur,  "  Poor  Bushrod !  " 

The  Orientals  arrived  within  ten  minutes  of  each 
other.  Miss  Salem  and  I  were  happy  women  indeed 
when  we  fully  understood  that  neither  Mr.  nor 
Madame  Hatsuko  was  aware  of  having  seen  us 
before.  I  faltered  —  I  could  not  help  it  —  whenever 
I  thought  of  that  crowd  of  faces  pressing  around 
us  there  in  the  White  House  conservatory,  where  I 
had  apparently  pinched  the  little  man.  As  for  Miss 
Salem,  she  blushed,  extempore,  every  time  he  glanced 
at  her.  But  I  realised  that  we  looked  so  very  differ- 
ent in  evening  dress  that  all  was  secure. 

Justice  Randolph  took  in  Madame  Hatsuko,  Mrs. 
Randolph  went  with  Mr.  Hatsuko;  the  Turkish 
minister  fell  to  Miss  Salem,  and  Jim  looked  very 


"'IT  IS    ALWAYS    ROSES    AND    CARA,   TO    ME 


«$»     "Through  the  Seventh  Gate"    «$»    173 

happy  and  very  suitable  beside  tall,  fair  Belle  Ran- 
dolph, a  Virginia  girl  who  had  been  in  Texas 
several  times  and  was  quite  as  used  to  a  seat  in  the 
saddle  as  one  in  a  rocking-chair,  and  much  fonder 
of  it.  I  might  naturally  have  fallen  to  the  share 
of  young  Mr.  Randolph,  her  husband,  and  it  pleased 
me  to  think  that  a  whispered  word  I  saw  Frank  give 
his  aunt  before  we  went  down,  prompted  her  to 
send  us  in  together,  young  Mr.  Randolph  and  the 
Turkish  ambassador's  secretary  following. 

The  table  was  banked  with  American  Beauties, 
just  then  beginning  to  be  most  favoured.  Frank  in- 
sisted that  the  decorations  were  arranged  to  match 
my  frock.  I  looked  down  the  softly  lighted,  snowy, 
glittering  expanse,  and  listened  to  the  low-toned 
conversation  and  laughter.  The  Turkish  minister 
was  a  small  man;  I  should  have  taken  him  for  a 
Hebrew.  He  wore  a  green  fez,  and  his  hair  and 
moustache  were  white.  Altogether  a  silent,  stately, 
intellectual-looking  man.  His  secretary  had  from 
the  first  enchained  my  attention.  Tall,  finely  formed, 
with  an  appearance  of  absolute  health,  [  have  never 
seen  a  physique  which,  even  in  speech  and  action, 
so  fully  bodied  forth  the  idea  of  repose.  He  was 
poise  itself.  Calm,  slow-speeched,  quiet-footed, 
graceful  of  movement,  it  was  not  alone  his  body 
which  seemed  unhurried.  You  might  know,  when 
you  looked  at  him,  that  his  soul  dwelt  always  in 
the  place  of  peace. 

I  was  studying  this  man's  face,  with  the  full 
curved  lips  lying  softly  one  upon  the  other  like 
those  of  an  idol,  his  large,  calm  eyes,  with  their 
regular,  equal  curve  of  upper  and  lower  lid,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  fretful  Occidental  line  of  most 


174         <&         The  Last  Word  «$> 

American  brows,  when  Frank's  voice  roused  me, 
saying,  "  We  must  have  Tewfik  read  palms  or  pre- 
dict destinies  after  dinner." 

"  He  looks  as  though  he  could  do  it,"  I  observed. 

"  He  can,"  Frank  assured  me. 

It  was  a  picked  company  about  that  beautiful 
table.  From  where  the  Chief  Justice,  a  type  of  the 
polished  Virginian,  the  scholarly  lawmaker,  sat  at 
its  head,  with  Madame  Hatsuko's  little  dark,  gem- 
like  countenance  on  his  right,  past  Champe  Ran- 
dolph's nervous,  energetic  version  of  the  Randolph 
type,  and  Mr.  Tewfik's  impassive  smile,  and  long, 
slow-moving  eyes ;  Miss  Salem's  exquisitely  refined, 
intellectual  face ;  to  the  foot,  where  stately  patrician 
Mrs.  Randolph  looked  dainty  and  fragile  and  exqui- 
site between  the  curved  beak  and  dark  flashing  face 
of  the  Turkish  minister  and  Mr.  Hatsuko's  dis- 
tinguished oriental  ugliness. 

The  Chief  Justice  was  a  beautiful  old  man  with 
a  great  domed  head,  clear,  dark,  intelligent  eyes 
that  looked  so  brilliant  in  their  wonderful,  hollowed 
orbits.  The  nose  was  fine,  and  there  were  delicate 
hands  and  feet  —  features,  I  was  beginning  to  learn, 
which  belonged  to  the  Randolph  family.  I  saw 
this  high  type  varied  somewhat  in  his  son,  and 
further  varied  in  his  nephew  who  sat  beside  me. 
Yet  in  all  three  it  was  the  type ;  regnant,  giving  — 
not  accepting  —  the  word. 

I  glanced  on  to  Jim.  Here  was  the  best  example 
of  Western  man.  There  were  no  traditions  behind 
him.  He  had  stature,  beauty,  and  a  physical  bal- 
ance which  was  good  to  see;  a  hawk-like  freedom 
of  glance,  a  stag-like  freedom  of  unconscious  move- 
ment ;  a  port  and  bearing  that  stooped  itself  before 


«$»      "Through  the  Seventh  Gate"  «$»   175 

nothing.  Yet  he  said  in  every  line  and  glance  and 
gesture,  "  Here  come  I,  with  all  I  am  and  all  I  have 
in  my  hand  and  my  brain." 

They  said  in  each  look  and  attitude  and  modu- 
lated tone,  "  Here  we  stand,  for  our  line,  for  our 
traditions,  beliefs,  cultivation."  The  summing  up 
of  their  position  was,  to  my  thinking,  "  We  repre- 
sent; we  are  results.  Make  then  your  submission 
to  us,  put  forward  your  offerings  before  us,  and  it 
shall  be  considered." 

He  interrupted,  "  I  am  Cause  itself.    Way  there !  " 

Something  of  this,  though  far  from  being  phrased 
in  this  fashion,  I  said  to  Frank,  and  he  accepted  it 
smilingly.  "  Yes,"  he  agreed,  "  and  what  of  Carita? 
Is  she  merely  the  onlooker  ?  " 

"  I  am  certainly  neither  Western  nor  Eastern,"  I 
answered.  "  I  was  born  in  one  place,  and  brought 
up  in  so  very  many  others  besides  Texas  that  I  am  a 
woman  without  a  country." 

"  The  country  of  the  heart  will  always  belong  to 
you,"  murmured  Frank.  "  You  speak  the  universal 
language,  Carita.  From  Lemuel  and  Uncle  Champ- 
ney  (Aunt  Helen's  butler,  who  just  now  moved  this 
epergne  to  find  an  excuse  for  looking  at  you)  up 
—  or  down,  is  it  ?  —  to  me,  and  —  the  others,  we  all 
come  to  you  with  full  faith  that  you  will  understand." 

As  his  voice  ceased,  we  both  noticed  that  Jim  was 
speaking.  Justice  Randolph  had  asked  him  a  ques- 
tion as  to  the  truth  of  the  statement  that  large 
numbers  of  Mexican  sheep-herders  go  mad  from 
loneliness. 

"  They  do,  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Jim.  "  There 
are  plenty  of  them  in  the  asylums  in  Texas.  I  have 


1 76         <&         The  Last  Word  ^ 

shaved  that  fate  so  close  myself  that  I  feel  great 
sympathy  with  them." 

"Did  you  ever  herd  sheep?"  inquired  young 
Mrs.  Randolph,  who  was  not  without  information 
as  to  life  in  the  Texas  cattle  country. 

"  Why,  no,  I  never  exactly  herded  sheep,"  an- 
swered Jim,  modestly.  It  made  me  smile  to  hear 
him  tell  it  so  quietly,  for  though  Jim  had  created 
almost  every  dollar  of  his  own  large  fortune,  begin- 
ning as  a  very  young  fellow  with  a  small  stock 
given  by  his  father,  yet  he  was  born  on  a  great 
ranch  the  size  of  a  small  Eastern  county.  His  father 
before  him  was  a  brilliant  but  reckless  cattle  and 
sheep  man,  who  was,  according  as  the  market  shifted, 
or  his  various  deals  were  fortunate  or  disastrous, 
a  baron  or  a  poor  man. 

"  No,  this  wasn't  herding,"  Jim  added,  "  it  was 
something  almost  as  lonesome,  though  —  sign 
riding." 

Everybody  was  silent,  now,  listening  to  Jim.  "  I 
had  gone  up  into  the  Panhandle,  to  look  after  some 
sign-camps  on  my  Staked  Plain  ranges.  You  know 
what  a  sign-camp  is  ?  " 

The  Chief  Justice  shook  his  head,  and  Jim  ex- 
plained, "  A  sign-camp  is  a  dugout,  or  a  tent  or  a 
shack  or  a  'dobe  —  something  two  men  can  live 
in.  You  put  a  line  of  sign-camps  at  equal  distances 
around  the  edge  of  your  range,  and  you  put  two 
as  good  men  as  you  can  get  in  each  of  them.  In 
the  morning  these  two  men  get  up,  have  their  break- 
fast and  ride  away  in  opposite  directions,  till  each 
one  meets  a  man  from  the  next  sign  camp  —  it's 
a  sort  of  living  fence  around  your  range.  They  look 
for  sign  of  straying  cattle,  and  turn  them  back  on  to 


177 


the  range.  The  distance  is  supposed  to  be  great 
enough  that  this  takes  half  the  man's  day.  He  gets 
down  and  eats  his  dinner,  perhaps  with  the  man 
from  the  other  camp;  and  he  takes  the  rest  of  his 
day  to  ride  back  to  his  own  diggings." 

"  I  should  think  a  man  might  go  mad  from  the 
monotony  of  that  sort  of  life,"  commented  Frank. 

Jim  smiled.  "  Why,  he's  in  the  giddy  whirl  of 
society  beside  the  thing  that  happened  to  me.  When 
1  got  up  to  my  line  of  camps,  I  found,  that  some  poor 
fellow  had  come  across  the  plain  from  Springer, 
New  Mexico,  and  sickened  with  smallpox  a  few 
hours  after  he  reached  one  of  my  westernmost  camps. 
He  died  and  was  buried  there.  Both  men  in  the 
camps  on  each  side  this  one  simply  ran  away.  At 
the  camp  itself,  one  man  had  died  with  the  smallpox, 
and  his  partner  was  completely  broken  down.  There 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  send  him  back  to  head- 
quarters while  he  was  still  able  to  travel,  and  to  keep 
that  sign-camp  the  best  I  could  while  he  was  gone. 
He  left  a  little  dog  with  me,  two  greasy  old  packs 
of  cards,  and  plenty  of  grub,  so  that,  as  he  said,  I 
'  ought  to  be  as  happy  as  a  king.' 

"  For  a  week  I  lived  there  in  that  'dobe,  alone  with 
the  little  cur.  I  rode  across  those  great,  dead-still 
levels  every  day  and  all  day.  I'd  pull  up  Cinco 
sometimes  and  sit  still  on  him,  and  look  all  around 
where  the  plain  and  the  sky  met  —  an  unbroken 
line  —  as  if  the  little  horse  and  I  were  the  only 
created  beings.  I'd  go  in  at  night,  and  shut  the 
door  on  that  awful  loneliness  outside,  and  there  it 
would  be  standing  between  the  little  dog  and  me. 
I'd  have  given  everything  I  was  worth,  for  the  face 


iy8         «f>         The  Last  Word  <&> 

to  throw  it  all  up,  load  my  pack-mule  and  hit  the 
trail  for  the  home  ranch  in  Jack  County. 

"  After  a  week  of  this,  I  began  to  neglect  my 
riding.  Just  the  thought  of  those  endless  stretches, 
of  that  horrible  loneliness  waiting  out  there,  was 
too  much  for  me.  I  said  to  myself,  '  Well,  the 
cattle  are  mine.  If  they  stray  off  my  range  it's 
nobody's  business.'  And  so  I  began  to  sit  alone 
day  after  day  in  that  miserable  little  'dobe,  till 
I  got  to  have  queer  ideas  about  what  the  dog 
was  thinking  of  me.  I  knew  well  enough  I'd  better 
get  up  and  out;  but  my  pony's  opinion  had  become 
of  importance. 

"  In  a  way  I  realised  what  was  happening  to  me  — 
I'd  seen  more  than  one  herder  brought  in  crazy  — 
but  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  go.  I  was  just 
afraid  of  everything,  as  near  as  I  can  remember. 
I'd  never  known  the  feeling  before,  and  it's  been 
my  idea  of  —  of  hell  —  ever  since;  just  to  be 
afraid  —  afraid  of  everything.  Don't  you  — 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Rustem  Bey,  and  several  other 
voices  murmured  confirmation,  Mrs.  Randolph  add- 
ing, "  And  what  happened,  Mr.  Baxter  ?  It's  very 
cruel  to  leave  you  in  such  a  situation." 

"  Well,"  returned  Jim,  "  I  got  worse  fast,  after 
I  quit  riding.  That  awful  loneliness  of  the  plain 
had  come  to  be  a  living  thing  that  hung  around  the 
window  and  waited  at  the  door.  I  was  sitting  there 
one  morning,  almost  afraid  to  look  out,  longing  for 
some  sight  or  sound  or  movement,  outside  of  myself 
and  little  stump-tailed  Navahoe.  The  thing  had 
narrowed  down  mighty  close  on  me.  I  was  in  a 
sort  of  nightmare. 

"  Suddenly,  Navahoe  growled  away  down  in  his 


«*»      "Through  the  Seventh  Gate"  -f*   179 

throat,  and  the  hair  rose  on  his  head  and  neck,  as 
the  door  darkened.  I  looked  up  and  saw  standing  in 
it  a  great  big  man,  six  feet  two  if  he  was  an  inch. 
He  was  well  dressed,  but  his  feet  were  bare  and  he 
had  no  hat  on.  He  came  striding  over  to  me  and 
caught  me  by  the  shoulder;  put  his  hand  on  my 
head,  pushed  it  back  and  stared  in  my  face.  *  Why, 
it's  a  man ! '  he  said ; '  it's  a  man  —  it's  another  living 
man  in  the  world ! '  and  then  he  began  to  cry ;  dh, 
you've  no  idea  how  pitifully,  the  tears  rolling  down 
his  big,  fine,  black-bearded  face.  And  he  put  up 
his  hands  over  his  eyes  and  sobbed  like  a  little 
child." 

Jim's  eyes,  and  all  the  others  at  the  table  except  the 
Oriental  ones,  were  suffused  with  sympathy.  He 
began  again. 

"  I  was  sound  and  clear  the  minute  he  laid  his 
hand  on  me.  And  I  saw  from  the  first  what  the 
matter  was ;  he  had  gone  crazy  from  .being  lost  on 
the  plain.  I  got  up  and  spoke  to  him,  and  put  him 
in  a  chair,  then  washed  his  feet  —  poor  fellow,  they 
were  all  cut  and  scarred  up.  He  must  have  taken 
off  his  shoes  almost  as  soon  as  he  lost  his  mind.  I 
got  him  into  my  bed,  finally.  He  was  in  a  high 
fever,  and  he  kept  saying  over  and  over  to  himself, 
whenever  he  would  Icok  at  me  or  feel  my  hands 
on  him,  '  Thank  God,  I'm  not  alone !  It  isn't  true 
that  I'm  all  alone  —  there's  another  man  in  this 
great,  terrible  world,  and  thank  God,  —  oh,  thank 
God  — I've  found  him!'" 

Jim  paused,  and  there  was  a  long  sigh  of  interest. 
I  looked  from  the  faces  about  the  table,  all  full  of 
the  pity  of  this  recital,  to  the  wrinkled  face  of  Mrs. 
Randolph's  butler,  as  he  stood,  decanter  in  hand, 


i8o         -^         The  Last  Word  -^ 

preparing  to  fill  Jim's  empty  glass.  Like  his  betters, 
he  had  forgotten  his  society  manner  in  the  thrill 
of  this  relation.  His  dark  old  face  was  drawn  with 
emotion.  I  could  fancy  that,  in  another  moment, 
perfectly  trained  servant  as  he  was,  he  would  ask, 
"  And  what  then,  sir?  did  the  man  get  well?  " 

Jim's  voice  took  up  the  thread  of  the  story.  "  I 
tended  on  that  poor  soul  three  weeks.  I  shall  always 
know  what  makes  mothers  love  little  helpless  chil- 
dren so.  This  man  was  a  fine  fellow,  and  young; 
he  must  have  been  handsome,  in  health,  and  —  and 
—  winning.  But  he  was  all  I  had  on  earth  —  and 
I  was  all  he  had;  and,  sick,  pitiful,  with  his  mind 
all  gone,  I  don't  believe  there  ever  was  any  one  —  not 
his  sweetheart  —  no,  not  even  his  mother  —  that 
loved  him  better  than  I  did,  who  tended  on  him  that 
last  week  of  his  life  —  and  never  knew  his  name. 

"  He  would  talk  to  me  by  the  hour  —  talk  poetry. 
He  might  have  been  an  actor,  or  he  might  have 
been  a  literary  man  who  knew  a  great  deal  of  that 
sort  of  thing.  And  what  he  said  was  beautiful,  and 
just  as  clear  as  anybody's  talk.  But  he  always  be- 
lieved that  the  whole  world  had  been  swept  away 
except  himself  and  me,  and  he  couldn't  bear  me 
out  of  his  sight  for  a  minute.  Sometimes  he'd  wake 
m  the  night,  shaking  all  over,  and  screaming  my 
name.  Then  I'd  make  a  light,  and  —  "  Jim  looked 
around  on  the  rapt  faces,  half  sheepishly,  half  de- 
fiantly —  "  and  hold  his  hand  and  sing  to  him,  till 
he'd  go  to  sleep  again." 

"  And  you  never  knew  who  he  was  ?  "  asked  young1 
Mrs.  Randolph. 

"  No,"  returned  Jim,  "  I  tried,  every  way,  to  find 


«^      "Through  the  Seventh  Gate"  «$*  181 

out  his  name,  but  it  was  no  use.  He  couldn't 
remember  it,  he  said." 

"  And  what  —  "  began  the  Turkish  minister's 
private  secretary,  whose  eyes,  with  their  beautiful 
iook  of  impersonal  kindness,  had  never  left  Jim's 
face,  and  never  showed  sign  of  the  emotion  which 
suffused  those  of  his  Anglo-Saxon  neighbours. 

Jim  nodded,  understandingly,  and  answered,  "  It 
was  this  way :  One  night  he'd  been  so  wild  and 
scared  that  I  hadn't  slept  at  all,  with  working 
over  him.  At  daybreak  he  fell  asleep  like  a  baby, 
and  looked  better  than  I'd  ever  seen  him.  I  was 
outside,  getting  a  little  breakfast,  when  I  heard  him 
call  me  —  soft,  and  different.  I  jumped  up  and  ran 
in,  ready  to  say,  '  God  bless  you,  old  man ! '  The 
minute  I  laid  eyes  on  him  I  knew  I  was  right,  that 
he  was  rational ;  and  the  next  minute,  when  I'd  got 
across  the  room  and  caught  him  as  he  pitched 
forward  —  that  he  was  dead." 

There  was  a  long  silence  after  this,  and  then  came 
Mrs.  Randolph's  voice,  pleasant,  composed,  from 
the  foot  of  the  table.  "  What  did  you  do,  Mr. 
Baxter  ?  I  have  often  wondered  what  one  would  do 
under  such  circumstances." 

Jim  looked  a  trifle  abashed.  "  The  first  thing 
I  did,"  he  answered,  "  was  to  burst  out  crying  over 
him,  and  cry  like  a  baby.  Then  I  managed  to  strip 
away  some  planks  from  one  end  of  the  room  where 
there  had  been  an  attempt  to  ceil  it,  and  make  him 
a  coffin,  and  dress  him,  and  lay  him  away. 

"  I  give  you  my  word  it  was  the  most  heart- 
shaking  experience  a  man  could  have.  The  relief 
might  come  to  me  at  any  hour  —  it  might  never 
come  at  all.  I  might  be  left  to  die  as  he  had,  there 


1 82         -^         The  Last  Word  <4> 

on  the  plain.  But  I  made  up  my  mind,  as  I  filled 
in  his  grave  and  piled  the  great  stones  over  it,  that 
I  would  not  stay  at  the  sign-camp.  I  would  get  my 
saddle  from  the  house,  put  it  on  my  pony,  and  I 
would  never  go  back  inside  those  four  walls  again. 
And  as  I  got  to  the  door  with  the  saddle  in  my  arms, 
I  saw  Allen  and  the  others  riding  up." 

There  was  a  little  murmur  of  relief  over  this  con- 
clusion. The  Turkish  minister  required  enlighten- 
ment on  several  points  of  the  story;  and  in  the 
interval  I  had  an  opportunity  once  more  to  talk 
to  Frank. 

"  You  and  Miss  Salem  are  going  back  to  New 
York  together,  I  believe?  "  he  said,  smilingly. 

"  That  is  the  understanding,"  I  replied.  "  Mr. 
DeWitt  was  kind  enough  to  offer  to  give  me  the 
management  of  that  projected  Washington  Bureau 
for  social  news.  That  would  make  me  a  permanency 
here,  you  know." 

We  were  going  into  the  parlours  now.  Frank's 
sunny  mood  was  not  ruffled  by  this  suggestion. 
"You  look  it,"  he  laughed.  "You  look  like  the 
head  of  a  news  bureau.  Just  glance  over  there,  and 
see  if  I  am  not  right.  I  should  take  you  to  be 
about  sixteen,  and  a  frivolous  young  heart-breaker 
into  the  bargain." 

I  looked  impulsively,  and  saw  again  the  fresh- 
lipped,  dewy-eyed,  apotheosized  Carrington  West, 
in  her  rosy,  flowing  draperies  and  shining  orna- 
ments. Truly,  the  conducting  of  news  bureaus  was 
far  from  my  thoughts  then. 

"Are  you  two  crystal  gazing?"  asked  a  soft, 
sonorous  voice  behind  us,  and  we  turned  to  find 
young  Tewfik  regarding  us  with  that  countenance 


«*      "Through  the  Seventh  Gate"  -^  183 

too  sweet  for  simple  gravity,  and  too  impassive 
to  be  called  a  smile. 

"  I  promised  Miss  West  that  you  should  read  her 
hand,  Tewfik,"  suggested  Frank. 

"  Miss  West's  hand,  like  my  own,"  returned  Mr. 
Tewfik,  spreading  abroad  his  slender,  olive-hued 
ringers,  "  is  an  excellent  one  for  the  typewriter. 
She  will  strike  out  a  fortune  from  the  machine." 

"  It  needs  not  a  prophet,  nor  one  returned  from 
the  dead  to  tell  us  that,"  laughed  Frank.  "  All  the 
office  is  saying  so  —  and  the  public  as  well." 

Mr.  Tewfik  looked  at  my  hands,  and  shook  his 
head.  "  Your  destiny  is  in  them,  Miss  West,"  he 
declared. 

I  fancied  that  he  alluded  to  the  palm,  and  held  the 
hand  palm  uppermost  before  him; 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  can  read  what  I  can  read  from 
the  backs  or  the  finger  tips,  as  from  the  palm. 
Your  destiny  is  in  them.  With  what  courage  you 
will  conquer  it,  we  shall  see." 

As  we  turned  to  the  table  where  young  Mrs. 
Randolph  and  Jim  sat  looking  over  some  photo- 
graphs of  Western  scenery,  Frank  observed  in  an 
apologetic  undertone  to  me  that  Mr.  Tewfik  had 
been  commonplace  and  unconvincing. 

I  did  not  think  so,  but  when  he  added,  "  I  want 
him  to  show  you  the  really  remarkable  things  he 
can  do,"  I  made  no  objection. 

"  Can  you  show  Miss  West  a  face  in  a  crystal, 
Tewfik?  "  he  asked.  "  She  is,  as  you  say,  a  writer. 
Such  a  thing  will  have  a  double  interest  for  her." 

"  I  have  no  crystal  here,"  replied  the  Turk, 
quietly,  "  but  I  will  find  something."  He  took  from 
under  the  pile  of  Western  views,  with  the  assured 


1 84         •&         The  Last  Word  «£• 

touch  of  one  who  might  have  placed  it  there,  a 
round  glass  paper-weight  of  the  sort  which  holds  a 
photograph.  He  slipped  out  the  picture,  drew  from 
his  bosom  a  dull  green  silk  handkerchief,  and 
setting  the  clear  bubble  of  glass  upon  it,  bade  me 
look  therein  and  behold. 

"If  those  in  whom  you  are  most  strongly  inter- 
ested are  present  while  you  gaze  into  a  crystal,"  he 
explained,  in  that  soft,  bell-like  monotone  of  his, 
"  you  may  get  the  face  of  one  about  whom  you  are 
not  especially  concerned,  but  who  is  thinking  of 
you." 

I  gazed  obedient.  There  was  only  a  bit  of  clear 
glass,  taking  greenish  reflections  from  the  silk  be- 
neath it.  Then  a  face  began  to  grow  in  the  bubble's 
heart,  nebulous,  shadowy.  At  first,  it  appeared  to 
me  the  reflected  face  of  Francis  Randolph,  who  stood 
at  my  side.  I  glanced  toward  him  to  say  so,  and 
when  I  turned  back,  up  from  the  depths  of  the  crys- 
tal looked  the  eyes  of  Bushrod  Floyd,  not  as  I  had 
ever  seen  them,  but  speaking  unutterable  reproach 
into  mine. 

As  the  face  faded,  Mr.  Tewfik  observed,  gently, 
"  There  is  a  letter." 

Disquieted  and  off  my  guard,  I  exclaimed  incau- 
tiously, "  Oh,  yes,  I  had  one  from  him  yesterday," 
and  then  shrank  before  the  absurd  naivete  of  the 
speech,  and  the  round  of  laughter  that  followed  it. 

"  It  is  not  the  letter  you  received  from  him  yester- 
day, nor  yet  that  which  you  shall  get  from  him  to- 
morrow," pursued  Mr.  Tewfik  meditatively.  "  This 
which  makes  itself  known  to  me,  is  a  letter  yet  to  be 
written.  It  will  come  to  you  sometime  in  the  future, 
it  will  come  to  you  —  he  paused,  glanced  quietly 


Through  the  Seventh  Gate" 


about  him,  saw  that  we  were  unobserved,  dropped 
his  right  hand  and,  without  looking,  picked  up  that 
of  Francis  Randolph.  With  an  inconspicuous  move- 
ment, he  put  it  forward  to  me,  palm  uppermost,  and 
concluded,  "  It  will  come  to  you  by  this  hand." 

With  this  surprising  and  unlikely  assertion,  he 
closed  his  prognostications. 

I  had  been  aware  from  the  first  that  no  one  saw 
what  I  saw  in  the  crystal.  Frank  could  not  know 
whose  letter  he  was  bespoken  to  bring  to  me..  But 
the  smiling  assurance  with  which  he  accepted  the 
suggestion  that  he  should  at  any  time  bring  any 
man's  letter  to  me,  showed  the  blissfulness  of  his 
mood  to  be  proof  against  ordinary  shocks. 

People  were  coming  in  to  the  reception  which  fol- 
lowed the  dinner,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  turn  from 
Mr.  Tewfik's  enigmatic  revelations  to  some  of  the 
personages  Frank  desired  me  to  meet. 

But  the  face  in  the  crystal  haunted  me.  It  was 
more  real  before  my  eyes,  during  a  part  of  the  time, 
than  the  faces  of  the  people  I  met.  I  longed  to 
question  Mr.  Tewfik  about  it. 

Yet  when,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  found 
him  for  a  moment  at  my  side,  I  merely  asked  him 
what  make  of  typewriter  he  used. 

He  informed  me  gravely  that  his  ir.achines  had 
been  specially  built  for  the  Turkish  government,  at 
one  of  the  large  factories,  and  set,  one  with  Turkish, 
and  one  with  Arabic  characters. 

There  fell  a  little  silence,  I  thinking-,  I  am  sure, 
of  nothing  but  the  incongruity  of  so  Occidental  and 
modern  a  contrivance  as  a  typewriter  being  furnished 
with  Arabic  letters  —  those  characters  in  which 


1 86         <&>        The  Last  Word  ^ 

the  Koran  of  Mohammed  was  written  by  Zeid,  the 
prophet's  amanuensis. 

Mr.  Tewfik  sat  regarding  me  with  that  full,  un- 
embarrassed, unembarrassing  gaze  of  his.  :<  You 
ask  me  when,"  he  said  finally. 

I  knew  he  alluded  to  the  letter,  and  I  nodded.  I 
had  not  asked  him  in  words,  but  it  was  the  thing 
which,  earlier  in  the  evening,  I  had  put  mentally  into 
a  thousand  forms  of  question. 

"  It  will  be  in  the  autumn  time." 

"  It  is  a  strange  way  for  a  letter  to  come,"  I 
hazarded,  finally.  "  Are  you  sure  ?  Where  shall  I 
be,  that  one  of  my  friends  should  send  me  a  letter 
by  the  hand  of  another?  " 

"  You  will  be  in  New  York,"  began  Mr.  Tewfik, 
and  I  laughed  easily. 

"  Both  of  those  friends  live  in  New  York,  and 
so  do  I.  We  meet,  almost  daily,  in  the  same  office. 
It  would  be  very  singular  about  that  letter." 

Mr.  Tewfik  bowed  sedately,  as  one  who  agreed 
that  life  was  indeed  strange,  and  the  ways  of  men 
past  finding  out.  He  would  have  offered  no  further 
explanation,  but  that  I  asked  him.  He  came  out 
of  a  little  fit  of  abstraction,  during  which  I  had 
been  talking  to  Frank,  and  to  a  Western  man  Frank 
had  brought  to  present,  to  answer  me. 

"  I  beg  pardon  —  oh,  the  letter,"  he  replied.  "  He 
who  writes  it  will  have  gone  upon  a  journey.  He 
will  not  then  be  living  in  New  York.  He  who 
delivers  it  —  " 

Mr.  Tewfik  was  called  upon  by  some  one  near  for 
a  bit  of  information.  He  gave  it,  turned  to  me, 
and  repeated,  "  He  who  delivers  the  letter  —  "  when 
it  was  signified  to  him  that  AH  Rustem  Bey  was 


«$»      "Through  the  Seventh  Gate"  «f»   187 

departing,  and  desired  his  attendance.  My  heart 
had  stood  still  to  listen  for  the  conclusion  of  that 
sentence.  In  it  seemed  to  be  the  kernel  of  such 
information  as  he  had  given  me.  As  he  made  his 
grave  adieu  to  me,  I  felt  an  almost  uncontrollable 
impulse  to  hold  fast  his  hand  and  beg  him,  who 
had  told  me  so  much  —  so  much  which  seemed  like 
living  truth  to  me  —  to  tell  me  only  a  little  more. 

I  looked  after  his  tall  retreating  back,  when  he 
went  to  make  his  devoirs  to  his  hostess,  and  my  eyes 
were  hot.  I  could  have  caught  at  his  vanishing  robe 
hem  —  represented  just  then  by  the  most  correct 
of  evening  dress  —  and  bidden  him  stay  for  one 
word. 

Later,  Frank  found  time  and  place  to  tell  me  that 
I  was  not  only  the  most  gifted  and  brilliant  woman 
he  knew,  but  the  most  beautiful ;  not  only  the  chosen 
companion  of  his  spirit,  but  the  delight  of  his  eyes. 
He  added,  with  a  little  touch  of  reproach,  that  his 
enjoyment  of  the  evening  would  have  been  perfect, 
if  he  might  have  announced  our  engagement  — 
privately,  at  least,  to  his  own  family. 

He  was,  however,  in  a  mood  so  celestial  that  he 
forbore  to  urge  this,  and  only  begged  that  he  might 
write  his  mother,  and  get  for  me  a  ring  which,  as 
she  had  always  said,  was  for  his  wife. 

I  demurred  laughingly,  and  advised  that  he  wait 
till  it  should  be  proved  that  our  present  halcyon 
season  was  more  enduring  than  such  seasons  had 
been  in  the  past. 

But,  in  the  retrospect,  that  evening  meant  for  me 
Mr.  Tewfik  and  his  uncompleted  revelations;  and  I 
said  to  Miss  Salem  as  we  drove  home  together  that 


1 88         4&         The  Last  Word  *& 

I  hardly  thought  it  the  proper  thing  for  people  to 
have  a  young  man  loaded  up  with  facts  like  that 
concerning  futures,  prowling  about  at  a  dinner- 
party. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

The   Lord's   Freeman 

"  Not  till  men  are  made  of  some  other  metal  than  earth. 
Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  overmastered  by  a  piece 
of  valiant  dust  ?  To  make  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of 
wayward  marl  ? " 

I  HAD  finished  the  Washington  matter  (cursing 
my  evil  star,  which  was  surely  in  the  ascendant  when 
I  begged  for  so  much  of  it),  and  had  got  back  to 
New  York.  Work  on  the  great  book  was  resumed. 
Frank  was  still  in  an  angelic  mood.  He  would 
have  let  me  off  for  as  much  as  a  week ;  but  I,  being 
something  of  an  angel  myself,  insisted  upon  making 
long  days. 

Indeed,  I  found  it  my  best  defence.  To  the 
future  I  would  not  look.  For  the  present,  this  book 
work  kept  sentiment  somewhat  in  abeyance,  and 
Frank  excellently  contented.  There  were  long, 
happy  mornings  in  which  we  scarcely  quarrelled  at 
all.  There  were  brief  skirmishes,  whose  reconcilia- 
tions appeared  to  more  than  make  up  (to  Frank 
at  least)  for  any  pain  they  caused. 

For  mv  part,  alas!  the  scar  was  always  left  by 
them.  They  prophesied  to  me  ultimate  defeat,  or 
the  rending  of  this  bond  which  had  become  so  dear 
to  me. 

189 


190         «$»         The  Last  Word  «^» 

One  morning,  when  he  had  welcomed  me  eagerly, 
he  added  that  I  was  hardly  ever  out  of  his  thoughts. 

"  Since  the  first  day  I  met  you  until  this  moment, 
Cara,"  he  said,  "  you  have  been  the  supreme  idea  to 
me  most  of  the  time,  and  the  undercurrent  always." 

I  did  not  tell  him  how  nearly  this  had  been 
true  with  myself,  but  only  answered  that  it  was 
sweet  to  hear  him  say  so. 

"  I  look  back  to  that  day,"  he  went  on;  "  think 
of  it,  dearest,  twelve  golden  hours !  If  we  had  them 
now  —  twelve  beautiful  hours  —  all  to  ourselves,  in 
which  we  should  not  quarrel,  nor  apprehend,  nor 
doubt  —  it  would  be  a  lifetime  of  joy,  wouldn't  it? 
With  a  week  of  such  days  as  that,  I  should  be  a 
Methuselah  of  bliss." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered,  "  but  where  will  you 
find  the  days  in  which  we  shall  not  quarrel  ?  " 

"  Right  here  —  now,  and  in  the  future,  till  we  live 
to  be  a  hundred." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  refuse  to  learn  by  experi- 
ence, Frank,"  I  said,  a  little  sadly. 

"  But  it  will  be  different,"  he  urged.  "  To  a  man 
who  has  not  worn  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve,  this 
sudden  tide  of  sentiment  was  well-nigh  painful.  It 
was  certainly  unwelcome  and  disquieting." 

"  I  found  it  so,"  I  answered. 

"  But  we  have  had  time  to  think  it  over,  and  we 
shall  never  disagree,  if  only  you  will  bear  in  mind, 
young  lady,  that  nobody  is  going  to  eat  you  up  — 
no  matter  how  much  they  may  feel  inclined  to." 

"  I  wonder,"  I  said,  "  if  you  are  experiencing  now 
that  remarkable  emotion  which  you  defined  to  me 
that  day  on  the  train  as  love.  I  must  think  to 
the  contrary,  for  you  were  going  to  love  the  person 


«f»          The  Lord's  Freeman       <Q>       191 

in  that  case,  whatever  she  was,  whatever  she  did,  and 
you  have  always  been  intent  only  on  making  poor 
me  over." 

"  Indeed,  no,"  he  murmured,  fondly.  "  I  would 
not  have  one  atom  of  you  changed.  I  should  myself 
be  in  some  awe  of  you  if  I  did  not  know  what  a 
very  woman  you  are  —  how  clinging,  how  depend- 
ent, how  timid,  how  in  reality  you  love  to  be  dic- 
tated to.  It  is  your  kaleidoscopic  inconsistency 
which  gives  me  courage.  I  am  best  pleased  when 
I  find  you  so  brilliantly  and  femininely  unreason- 
able." * 

I  sighed  impatiently.  I  wished  he  would  go 
away  and  find  the  girl  who  corresponded  with  this 
description,  for  surely  it  was  not  I.  Our  recon- 
ciliation meant,  it  seemed  to  me,  only  a  renewal  of 
torture.  "  Floating  islands  of  the  night,  shouting 
lies  to  each  other  through  the  blackness  and  across 
the  sliding  water,"  I  misquoted  as  I  went  down  the 
stairs. 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  my  worries,  came  Mr. 
DeWitt  with  the  very  natural  suggestion  that,  as 
I  had  done  Washington  so  well  for  the  syndicate,  I 
go  to  Boston,  and,  as  he  phrased  it,  "  do  the  same 
trick." 

At  first  I  was  aghast.  Then,  after  a  week  more 
of  Frank  and  the  book,  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  will  go 
anywhere.  I  will  do  anything.  I  will  take  in  cross- 
ings to  sweep  for  my  living  —  anything  but  this." 

I  came  down  to  the  studio  the  morning  after  reach- 
ing this  point,  afraid  to  tell  my  partner,  yet  knowing 
it  must  be  done. 

"  I  think  I  will  not  write  this  morning,  Frank," 
I  remarked,  standing  by  the  table,  and  mussing  over 


192         ^»         The  Last  Word  «£» 

my  manuscript.  "  I  have  been  neglecting  my  regular 
work  too  much  of  late.  I  should  plan  out  my  new 
series,  and  to  do  that  I  must  go  home  and  be  alone." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  think  any  more  about  the 
new  series.  I  want  to  plan  that  for  you,"  he 
answered,  sweetly. 

I  must  have  looked  astonished  and  somewhat 
frightened,  for  he  added,  laughing  a  little,  "  You 
need  not  accept  my  plans  after  I  make  them,  you 
know ;  but,  Cara,  it  grieves  me  to  see  you  worrying 
over  such  things." 

"I  am  not  worrying,"  I  answered,  "I  never  worry. 
The  work  comes  to  me  in  just  the  way  it  ought, 
when  I  have  to  do  it." 

"  There  are  some  things,"  Frank  went  on,  "  about 
which  I  think  my  advice  will  be  of  more  use  to  you 
than  that  of  a  fellow  writer  —  or  a  writer  fellow.  I 
get  the  point  of  view  of  the  general  public  —  the 
average  reader." 

"  Mr.  DeWitt  gives  me  that,"  I  said,  incautiously. 
"  He  is  an  ideal  editor."  I  saw  the  old  look,  the 
jealous  darkening  of  the  face,  and  knew  that  I  had 
offended  again. 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  up  the  work,  at  once," 
said  Frank  finally,  "  and  go  home  —  to  Texas  — 
till  you  are  willing  to  let  me  come  for  you.  You  will 
have  to  give  it  up  sometime,  you  know." 

It  had  come  at  last,  the  challenge  I  had  been 
expecting.  I  must  answer  it. 

"  Frank  —  oh,  Frank,  dear,"  I  said  earnestly, 
"  look  at  it  a  minute.  You  would  never  ask  me 
to  sacrifice  anything  material  for  you  —  my  hair,  a 
hand,  an  arm,  any  physical  member  —  my  life  itself 
—  but  —  " 


«^          The  Lord's  Freeman       «$»       193 

Frank  gazed  on  me  in  amazement.  "  Cara !  "  he 
cried,  "  what  on  earth  —  " 

But  I  interrupted,  "  No,  hear  me  out.  I  say  you 
would  not  ask  of  me  —  as  proof  of  my  love,  as  a 
tribute  to  your  power  over  me,  and  an  adornment 
of  your  triumphal  progress  through  life  —  the  sacri- 
fice of  any  of  my  members,  or  of  my  life  itself.  But, 
Frank,  dear,  consider,  what  of  the  soul?  What  of 
its  life  and  welfare?  If  you  take  from  it  its  precious 
labours  and  activities,  if  you  shear  and  lop  and  rob 
it,  shall  —  " 

"  But  does  not  love  "  —  he  began,  with  shining 
eyes. 

"  Frank,"  I  said,  "  my  work  is  my  soul's  health 
and  dignity.  These  talents  that  have  been  given  to 
me  —  these  talents  that  it  is  death  to  hide  —  you 
would  have  lodged  with  me  useless.  It  would  be  all 
one  to  me,  if  you  possessed  millions  of  dollars.  To 
my  thought  —  my  understanding  —  there  is  no  way 
of  making  life  good  and  clean  and  satisfactory,  but 
by  each  day  earning  the  right  to  be  here.  Only  so  — 
only  after  thus  much  —  would  happiness  be  possible 
to  me." 

"A  woman's  home,  is  not  that  her  sphere?" 
questioned  Frank.  "  Cannot  she  find  work  there  — 
employment  for  her  powers  ?  " 

"  Well,  say  we  were  to  have  a  home,"  I  conceded, 
"  a  home,  a  place  for  us  two  to  live  in ;  to  rest  and 
be  acquainted  with  each  other,  and  be  happy  in; 
should  it  usurp  the  larger  activities  of  either  of  us? 
I  shall  not  cook  its  food  nor  scrub  its  floors  nor 
wash  its  windows,  any  more  than  you  perform  the 
equivalent  of  these  labours  at  the  office.  My  real 
work  —  " 


194         *&         The  Last  Word  «$» 

"  The  work  —  the  work  —  "  Frank  repeated  in  a 
dazed  tone  —  "  You  can't  give  up  your  work  ?  You 
need  it  to  make  you  happy?  Why,  dearest,  haven't 
I  told  you  that  you  have  touched  me  with  heaven's 
own  fire,  made  of  me  a  better,  a  larger,  as  well  as 
a  happier  man?  If  you  believe  me  but  ordinarily 
grateful  for  such  a  boon  as  that,  you  must  see  that 
I  shall  wish  always  to  make  your  happiness. 
Happy  ?  The  angels  will  envy  us !  " 

To  be  put  in  a  heaven  —  oh,  to  be  fairly  chased 
into  it  —  and  told  sharply,  by  inference  at  least, 
to  stay  there  now,  like  a  lady,  while  somebody  made 
my  happiness  for  me!  He  had  not  understood  one 
word  of  my  appeal.  He  might  as  well  not  have  heard 
it.  Should  I  try  once  more?  Should  I  press  the 
truth  upon  him  till  I  saw  all  the  love  and  tender- 
ness —  driven  by  bewildered  resentment  —  leave  his 
face,  to  be  followed  by  the  look  I  knew,  the  set-to  of 
bitterness,  of  arrogant  and  unbending  will,  that  finds 
no  limit  to  tyrannical  demand  and  exaction?  Why 
not  just  pass  the  issue?  Fate  would  take  care  of  it 
for  me,  one  way  or  the  other,  soon.  It  would  make 
its  own  conclusion,  inevitably,  yes,  or  no,  and  that 
quickly.  Why  not,  just  for  a  few  minutes,  leave 
the  cup  of  sweetness  at  my  lips  ?  —  the  cup  my  pre- 
saging soul  told  me  it  would  never  be  mine  to  drain? 
So  I  only  said,  weakly,  "  Oh,  heaven  is  such  a 
solemn  place  I  should  never  have  the  face  to  be  happy 
there." 

"  Ah,  but  we  are  going  to  laugh  in  our  heaven," 
comforted  Frank. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  would  suit  heaven,  I  am  too 
faulty,"  I  persisted. 

"The  dear  little  touch  of  human  failing!     It  is 


<£»          The  Lord's  Freeman       «$»       195 

what  encourages  me  about  you.  Of  course  you  are 
an  angel.  Of  course  I  have  to  look  up  to  you, 
wrapped  in  cloud,  high  above  me.  The  little  faults 
—  or  things  which  you  call  faults  —  are  almost  my 
only  hope.  I  really  mean  it,  love.  It  is  like  having 
you  slip  your  dear  white  hand  down  into  the  clouds 
a  bit,  and  whisper  '  Where's  Frank  ?  '  Here  he  is, 
honey,  always  reaching  a  hand  to  climb  to  you  — • 
my  hope,  my  inspiration." 

This  was  not  the  kind  of  speech,  you  would  have 
said,  to  force  me  into  the  open,  to  thrust  me  into 
the  honest,  courageous  course.  Certainly,  it  was  not 
what  I  had  weakly  looked  forward  to  as  furnishing 
the  inevitable  call  for  a  solution.  But  Truth's  mes- 
sengers arrive  by  various  roads,  and  she  knows  many 
and  curious  ways  to  compel  us  to  her  service. 

And  so  it  was,  that  this  lover's  speech  of  Frank's 
seemed  to  show  me  the  hopeless  difference  in  our 
points  of  view.  Having  failed  to  be  brave  and  reso- 
lute when  I  ought,  I  must  now  be  harsh  and  offen- 
sive. 

"  I  never  asked,"  I  said  doggedly,  "  to  be  any- 
body's hope  and  inspiration.  I  am  not  requiring 
somebody  to  be  a  hope  and  inspiration  to  me,  and 
if  I  were  I  should  not  get  it.  Your  idea  which 
appeals  to  you  so  much  is,  to  be  to  me  a  kind  of 
extinguisher,  a  sort  of  grand  quietus." 

"  Cara!  "  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

"  Oh,  I  may  as  well  say  it.  You  know  I'm  think- 
ing it  all  the  time.  If  I  were  in  your  place  I  should 
ret  want  anybody  about  me  full  of  rebellion  and 
anger  and  despair;  but  you  seem  to  think  that,  so 
lor. g  as  I  do  not  say  —  " 

Frank  rose,  white  with  wrath.    He  came  over  and 


196         «$»         The  Last  Word  *& 

laid  a  steady  hand  upon  my  shaking  one,  which 
gripped  the  pencil. 

"  Say  it,"  he  told  me.  "  Never  pause  for  wound- 
ing a  heart  that  is  all  your  own.  Never  halt  for 
trampling  on  the  most  ardent,  tender,  fond  emotions 
of  a  man's  —  Oh,  women  are  all  alike !  "  and  he 
flung  my  hand  aside  and  strode  over  to  the  window. 

I  looked  at  his  back  as  he  stood  there,  and  drew 
my  breath  sharply.  I  had  been  asked  to  speak,  and 
speak  I  would.  No  thing  should  now  be  left  unsaid. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  I  began,  "  I  want  the  privi- 
leges of  a  mere  human  being." 

"  You  do  not  appear  to  appreciate  the  superiority 
of  being  held  above  the  ruck  of  humanity,  regarded 
as  an  angel." 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  I  went  on  steadily.  "  Angels 
never  get  their  dues.  Who  would  think  of  paying 
a  debt  to  an  angel?  We  all  understand  that  there 
are  no  pockets  in  angels'  robes.  They  are  not  ex- 
pected to  get  or  keep  anything  for  themselves." 

"  And  so.  when  I  call  you  an  angel,"  commented 
Frank,  with  something  very  like  a  sneer,  "  it  is  be- 
cause I  grudge  you  everything?" 

"  Yes,  it  is.  You  grudge  me  the  least  breath  of 
freedom,  and  that  is  everything.  I  am  to  have  for 
my  life,  for  my  body  and  brain  and  soul,  nothing, 
except  what  comes  through  you.  When  are  you 
going  to  give  up  your  work  ?  " 

"  Ah,  but  that  is  different,"  ejaculated  Frank, 
almost  kindly,  turning  and  coming  toward  me. 
"  Don't  you  see  I  am  to  work  for  us  both  ?  My  work 
matters  to  me  now,  because  it  is  for  you  —  all  for 
you;  every  dollar,  every  bit  of  fame,  just  for 
Carita." 


«$»          The  Lord's  Freeman       *&       197 

I  think  he  was  honestly  deceived  in  the  matter, 
1  believe  most  men  are;  yet  his  words  left  me  cold, 
and  a  little  angry.  "  You  would  be  very  foolish  if 
that  were  true,  Frank  —  but  it  is  not,"  I  said. 
"  You  just  think  it  is.  You  were  absorbed  and 
happy  in  your  work  before  you  ever  saw  me.  Talk 
about  every  dollar  you  make  being  for  sake  of  her 
you  love,  then  let  your  wife  take  you  at  your  word 
and  attempt  to  dole  back  to  you  an  allowance,  and 
listen  to  the  explosion  that  would  follow !  " 

"  You  sordid  little  wretch ! "  exclaimed  Frank, 
laughing.  The  hopeless  thing  was  that,  unless  I 
wounded  and  made  him  angry,  he  would  never  take 
me  seriously.  "  How  dare  you  talk  about  allow- 
ances between  you  and  me?  I  see,  honey,  that  you 
are  going  to  stipulate  for  special  terms  —  mixing  up 
finance  and  love  —  it  is  like  money-changers  in  the 
temple !  " 

I  felt  the  futility  of  my  brief  rebellion.  I  felt  that 
no  one  thing  I  had  said  had  been  the  right  thing. 
I  laid  down  the  manuscript  abruptly,  thrust  my 
pencil  into  my  hair,  and  remarked  in  as  calm  a  tone 
as  I  could  command,  "  I  am  going  over  to  Boston 
for  a  week  or  two.  Mr.  DeWitt  has  given  me  a 
commission  there.  I  am  going  to  say  good-bye  to 
you  now,  Frank,  and  go  to-night." 

Frank's  pale  face  flushed  with  anger,  and  his 
eyes  took  on  their  stern  look,  as  he  said,  "  There ! 
Now  you  see  why  I  object  to  your  work.  Any  man, 
any  fool,  can  order  you  about  and  send  you  places, 
while  I  have  no  word  to  say." 

There  were  a  very  great  many  answers  I  could 
have  made  to  this  remark.  The  things  it  gave  me 
privilege  to  say  piled  up  before  my  mental  vision  as 


198         +         The  Last  Word  «^ 

quite  a  library  of  argument  and  reproach.  Time, 
however,  would  have  permitted  the  rehearsing  of 
comparatively  few  of  them,  and  I  had  ever  an  objec- 
tion to  accepting  an  abridged  privilege;  so  I  said 
quite  another  thing  from  any  of  them. 

It  was,  "  I  am  going  to  Boston  because  I  want  to. 
If  I  did  not  like  the  commission,  I  should  not 
accept  it.  I  never  take  things  I  do  not  want,"  and 
I  was  hastening,  shaken  with  angry  emotion,  out 
of  the  room,  when  Frank  intercepted  me  at  the  door. 

"  You  know  this  is  final,  do  you?  "  he  demanded, 
almost  menacingly.  "  You  understand,  of  course, 
that  I  would  not  endure  such  words  as  that  from  any 
woman,  no  matter  what  I  felt  for  her." 

"  Then  let  it  be  so  —  let  it  be!  "  I  cried,  between 
weariness  and  anger  and  shame.  "  It  would 
better,  God  knows.  I  —  " 

There  was  no  voice  to  say  more.  I  could  have 
sunk  under  my  sense  of  humiliation.  After  all  my 
clear  understanding  of  the  matter,  my  resolution  to 
make  it  plain  to  Frank,  my  grief  at  the  fear  - 
almost  a  certainty  —  that  the  tie  which  was  so  pain- 
fully sweet  and  dear  to  me  was  doomed  to  be  broken 
—  for  all  this,  it  was  not  in  dignified  calmness,  what- 
ever the  sorrow,  but  in  an  angry  quarrel,  that  the 
precious,  impossible  bond  had  been  rent. 

My  regret  and  self-reproach  were  bitter,  and  I 
fairly  quailed  beneath  them.  As  I  gazed  speech- 
lessly at  Frank,  who  had,  I  knew,  all  his  own  stern 
heart  could  support  of  pain  and  disappointment,  he 
mistook  my  drooping  attitude,  and  caught  willingly 
at  the  supposed  repentance.  His  look  softened  beau- 
tifully upon  me.  He  stretched  out  his  hands  to  me 
with  an  inarticulate  murmur: 


«£»          The  Lord's  Freeman       *$*       199 

"  My  little  wilful  sweetheart  —  oh,  Carita  —  little 
creature  —  " 

"  No,  no!  "  I  whispered  chokingly.  And  tearing 
my  heart  away  from  those  compelling,  beseeching 
eyes,  I  hurried  out  and  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

A   Doctor  of  Philosophy 

"  The  tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel." 

THE  point  of  view  of  each  human  creature  must 
necessarily  be  his  own. 

I  put  this  in  the  form  of  an  announcement  —  a 
statement  —  rather  than  as  a  suggestion  or  remark, 
because  I  have  observed  widely  and  studiously  in  the 
matter,  and  all  my  observations  have  proved  this  to 
be  true.  I  perceive  that  persons  may  be  so  destitute 
that  they  must  beg  from  others  all  the  necessities 
of  life,  so  impoverished  that  no  sheriff's  writ,  no 
search-warrant,  could  discover  a  vestige  of  means, 
of  assets;  but  this  one  bit  of  portable  property  is 
inalienable,  and  the  bankrupt  or  the  beggar  is 
seized  and  possessed  of  his  own  personal,  individual 
point  of  view,  equally  with  the  bishop,  the  senator, 
and  the  millionaire. 

And  I  have  seen,  also,  that  two  people  of  much 
the  same  general  size  and  shape,  the  same  class 
socially,  working  side  by  side  in  the  greatest  amity, 
at  the  same  undertaking,  will  regard  the  whole 
matter  from  points  of  view  as  widely  separate  and 
dissimilar  as  can  well  be. 

All  this  was  suggested  by  my  conversation  with 
Mr.  DeWitt  the  afternoon  before  I  went  to  Boston. 

200 


«$»         A  Doctor  of  Philosophy     «$•      201 

When  he  had  —  with  his  usual  cleverness,  brevity, 
and  perspicacity  —  delivered  all  instructions  and 
suggestions  necessary,  and  was  satisfied  that  I  had 
them  properly  sorted  and  packed  in  my  mental  port- 
manteau, Mr.  DeWitt  relaxed  and  addressed  me 
upon  the  social  plane.  His  touch  was  light  and 
correct  (though  Mr.  De Witt's  years  were  few  if  any 
beyond  my  own,  as  a  citizen  of  the  world  I  was  ever, 
beside  him,  a  gawky  infant)  ;  and,  pleased,  I  pro- 
duced in  response  some  of  the  many  things  which 
happened  to  Miss  Salem  and  me  while  I  was  in 
Washington.  I  thought  us  such  an  odd  pair,  like 
the  soda  and  the  sour  of  baking-powder,  walking 
around  hand  in  hand,  ready  to  make  things  rise. 

;<  You  appear  to  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  Priscilla 
Salem/'  he  suggested. 

"  I  did,"  I  answered.  "  We  were  together  almost 
continually,  when  I  wasn't  busy;  and  you  know  I 
spent  the  last  week  at  her  apartments." 

"  A  good  opportunity  for  you,"  he  observed. 

"  Wasn't  it?  "  I  agreed.  "  I  believe  if  anything 
could  reform  me,  and  make  a  man  of  me,  Miss 
Salem's  companionship  would  do  it.  She  is  one  of 
the  loveliest  women  I  ever  met." 

"  She  holds  more  stock  than  the  president,  in  the 
concern  you  are  working  for,"  supplied  my  editor, 
with  that  little  suspicion  of  a  sneer  which  I  hate, 
hovering  about  his  lips. 

"  I  am  not  working  for  any  concern,"  I  said 
sharply. 

"  But  for  —  "  he  interrogated,  with  those  coolly 
raised  brows  which  always  drove  me  to  say  foolish 
things. 

"  For  undying  fame,"  I  rejoined  shortly.    "  And 


202         *&         The  Last  Word  «£» 

incidentally,  for  bread  and  butter.  For  your  ap- 
proval, or  that  of  the  janitor,  or  any  other  honest 
man  who  reads  and  cares  for  my  stuff." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  you  are  impractical,"  sighed 
my  mentor.  "  A  week  in  Priscilla  Salem's  house, 
and  no  axe  ground !  I  should  have  been  trembling 
for  my  own  position  —  I  know  that  every  time  I 
change  your  punctuation,  or  say  you  use  too  many 
adjectives,  you  feel  sure  I  am  incompetent,  and  that 
you  could  fill  the  place  better."  And  he  laughed 
genially  at  the  guilty  assenting  blush  which  silently 
answered  him. 

But  I  went  back  to  that  hateful  thought.  "  I  shall 
not  let  myself  care,"  I  cried,  "  if  you  have  said  she 
is  worth  three-quarters  of  a  million.  Why  should 
I?  I  knew  that  before.  She  is  fine  and  true,  and 
one  of  the  most  companionable  creatures  I  ever  met, 
notwithstanding,  and  —  and  she  and  I  are  full  part- 
ners!" 

"  You  are ! "  he  echoed,  with  a  hint  of  unflatter- 
ing surprise,  then  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  and 
considered  me  thoughtfully  for  five  minutes. 

"  No,  you  don't  know  how  to  grind  an  axe  at  all, 
do  you  ?  Here  you  have  been  actually  a  member  of 
Miss  Salem's  household  for  weeks,  and  seem  to  have 
turned  it  to  no  account  whatever." 

"  To  what  earthly  account  could  I  try  to  turn  it  ?  " 
I  inquired. 

"  Just  this,"  he  answered,  "  you  write  well  enough 
—  you  know  that  yourself  —  you  know  we  think  so 
here.  With  her  influence,  you  could  have  simply 
anything  that's  going." 

"  God  pity  the  rich !  "  I  burst  out,  "  to  whom  is 
denied  even  a  little  honest  liking  from  the  stranger 


«£»         A  Doctor  of  Philosophy     «$»      203 

within  their  gates ;  and  whose  own  kin  —  now  that 
you  remind  me  of  the  conditions  —  must,  I  see,  wish 
them  dead  three  times  a  day." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  come,"  remarked  Mr.  DeWitt. 
"  That  is  put  with  your  usual  force  and  felicity ;  but 
we're  not  in  a  sketch.  This  is  mere  reality.  Just 
tell  me,  don't  you  know  that  woman's  a  power  in 
this  office?" 

"  Well,  so  am  I,"  I  returned,  and  flourished  out 
of  it,  taking  my  point  of  view  along  with  me,  leaving 
(very  gladly)  Mr.  De Witt's  there  with  him. 

But  that  was  in  New  York.  When  I  had  been  in 
Boston  less  than  a  week,  it  would  have  been  stating 
it  very  mildly  to  say  there  was  no  strut  or  bravado 
left  in  me.  In  West  Texas,  girls  had  not  been 
plenty.  They  were  the  most  welcome  and  desired 
citizens,  treated  with  much  favour  and  partiality. 

My  sensations  in  Boston  were  those  of  a  spoiled 
and  petted  only  child,  accustomed  to  attention  and 
consideration,  who  goes  —  upon  an  evil  day  —  to 
visit  in  some  relative's  family,  where  children  are 
overplentiful,  and  deprecated,  not  to  say  despised. 
To  such  a  child  in  such  a  household,  the  mere  ordi- 
nary round  of  its  life,  without  any  special  accident 
or  outbreak,  is  a  continual  pain  and  wounding;  yea, 
he  is  killed  all  the  day  long. 

Miss  Salem  had  given  me  some  letters  to  her 
Boston  friends.  These  made  for  me  at  once  a  little 
circle  of  acquaintances  —  all  women.  I  found  them 
agreeable  and  helpful  to  me,  both  socially  and  in  my 
work.  When  I  called  to  present  one  of  these  letters 
(it  was  to  a  cousin  of  Miss  Salem's,  scarcely  more 
than  a  girl,  but  a  clever  young  doctor,  and  "  the 
best  and  brightest  of  the  lot,"  as  Mr.  DeWitt  said). 


204         «f»         The  Last  Word  «t» 

there  were  several  women  friends  in  the  room;  two 
of  them  were  medical  students  in  her  office.  One 
of  the  visitors,  and  a  typical  member  of  the  great 
army  of  superfluous  women,  —  indeed,  it  struck  me 
that  she  might  fairly  be  expected  to  be  some- 
what superfluous  anywhere,  —  faced  round  upon  me 
abruptly,  and  demanded : 

"  Why  did  you  come  here  to  do  the  work  some 
Boston  woman  ought  to  have,  to  take  the  place  she 
cught  to  fill,  to  take  the  bread  out  of  her  mouth  ?  " 

I  was  so  astonished  at  her  onslaught,  so  bewil- 
dered by  her  method  of  reasoning,  that  my  usual 
levity  deserted  me,  and  I  failed  to  make  the  flippant 
but  truthful  rejoinder  that  I  came  because  I,  and 
not  "  some  Boston  woman,"  was  wanted,  and  that 
I  did  not  like,  and  could  scarcely  conceive  of  circum- 
stances under  which  I  should  consent  to  eat,  bread 
out  of  somebody  else's  mouth. 

But  Doctor  Thorndyke  interfered  in  my  defence, 
with  a  quiet  smile,  and  her  aggressive  friend  was 
placated.  Later,  I  arranged  to  stay  with  the  doctor, 
who  had  but  just  set  up  in  a  modest  flat,  for  such 
time  as  I  should  be  in  Boston.  She  was  a  fine  ex- 
ample of  the  best  sort  of  girl  bachelor,  about  twenty- 
seven  years  old,  clever,  broad-minded,  a  writer  of 
good  ability,  of  an  excellent  disposition,  as  frank  and 
kind  a  friend  and  companion  as  heart  could  desire. 
When,  from  time  to  time,  I  came  in  to  her,  wailing 
aloud  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  woman  in 
Boston,  I  could  never  be  sure  whether  she  would 
chaff  or  sympathise.  She  was  notably  excellent  at 
either,  and  I  found  the  two  methods  equally  agree- 
able and  effective  in  soothing  my  hurts  or  diverting 
my  mind  from  them.  Again,  she  chaffed  so  feel- 


«$»         A  Doctor  of  Philosophy     «0»      205 

ingly,  or  sympathised  with  such  a  hint  of  sarcasm, 
that  I  had  much  ado  to  tell  t'other  from  which ;  and 
in  my  efforts  to  discriminate  I  forgot  my  bruises 
entirely. 

One  morning  I  stood  waiting  for  my  car,  upon 
the  accustomed  corner,  at  the  accustomed  hour,  when 
a  good-looking,  well-dressed  person  came  up  and 
waited  near  me,  holding  a  paper  in  his  well-kept 
hand.  He  was  a  handsome  man  —  a  really  superior 
looking  man;  and  when  as  I  thought  he  regarded 
me  approvingly,  I  was  idly  pleased  thereat,  and 
smoothed  my  feathers  consciously.  Meantime  an- 
other woman  stopped,  and  then  another  —  both  of 
whom  were  young  and  pretty.  A  car  approached; 
this  man  gave  us  one  comprehensive  glance,  walked 
almost  half  a  block  toward  it,  caught  it  before  it 
stopped,  got  in,  secured  the  only  vacant  seat,  un- 
furled his  paper  and  read  serenely,  leaving  us  sus- 
pended to  the  straps  before  him,  like  so  many  fowls 
dangling  in  a  poulterer's  window. 

This  tale  I  told  to  the  doctor,  in  positive  gloom 
and  humiliation  of  spirit.  She  laughed,  as  usual, 
told  me  what  she  called  some  early  lessons  of  her 
own,  and  concluded  in  her  inimitable  manner: 

"  Now,  my  child  —  my  dear  young  Western  sis- 
ter —  I  did  not  tell  you  these  things  to  exacerbate 
your  already  outraged  feelings.  Far  otherwise. 
Look  at  me.  I  have  lived  through  it,  and  grown  fat 
upon  it"  (the  doctor  was  as  slender  as  a  reed). 
•'  What  does  that  teach  you  ? ' 

"  Ours  is  the  case  of  any  animal  thrown  unpre- 
pared amid  new  and  unfavouring  conditions.  It 
must,  if  it  is  to  persist,  develop,  we  will  say,  a 
longer  snout,  a  higher  rate  of  speed,  or  grow  a 


206         «f»         The  Last  Word  <& 

new  set  of  legs  outright,  in  order  to  cope  with  the 
difficulties  of  its  new  environment. 

"  And  they  do,  you  know.  Oh,  they  do ;  they  call 
upon  Mother  Nature,  or  the  Oversoul,  or  something, 
and  she  —  or  it  —  provides  'em.  Oh,  I  assure  you 
the  legs  and  snouts  are  forthcoming.  And  what 
these  creatures  do  in  the  course  of  a  few  hundred 
generations,  you  must  set  your  wits  to  do  at  once. 
Grow  weapons  of  aggression  or  defence,  and  that 
quickly.  Either  a  thick  skin  or  quick  tongue  —  both 
for  that  matter." 

"I  —  "  I  began,  still  complainingly. 

"  Well,  do  you  care  greatly  ?  "  interrupted  the 
doctor,  unexpectedly. 

"  N-n-no,"    I    responded,    reluctantly.      "  But   it 

—  well,   you   know,   I   have   an   ever   present   and 
crushing  belief  that  I  am  an  error,  a  mistake;   nay, 
even  worse  —  possibly  a  crime !    I  feel  apologetic  all 
the  time.     I  have  developed  from  deprecatory  into 
abject,  and  —  " 

"  Have  you  ?  "  said  Doctor  Thorndyke,  a  little 
dryly.  "  Well,  I  should  say,  then,  that  you  needed 
exactly  what  you  are  getting.  I  don't  find  myself 
very  abject.  You  are  from  Texas,  n~ry  child  —  that 
is,  you  are  a  spoiled  baby.  Stop  thinking  you  are 
a  woman,  or  worse  yet '  a  lady,'  and  be  an  individual 

—  be  willing  to  stand  on  your  merits  as  a  worker, 
,,       " 

et  •" 

"  Say  no  more !  "  I  cried,  with  a  burning  face.  "  I 
don't  need  another  word.  I  see  —  I  perceive  —  I 
understand." 

We  both  laughed,  and  passed,  with  a  reenforced 
mutual  understanding,  to  other  matters. 

One  evening,  a  little  later,  we  were  brushing  out 


<Q»         A  Doctor  of  Philosophy     «$•      207 

our  hair  and  exchanging  confidences  —  even  a  suc- 
cessful young  physician  may  still  be  woman  enough, 
I  found,  to  care  for  the  alliterative  relaxation  of 
kimonas  and  confidences. 

"  And  so  you  know  Francis  Randolph,  do  you  ?  " 
inquired  the  doctor,  drawing  a  shining  tress  medi- 
tatively through  her  ringers.  "  How  long  have  you 
known  him  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  I  came  to  New  York,"  I  answered. 
"  I  met  him  on  my  way  up.  It  was  —  " 

The  doctor  turned  her  clear  eyes  on  me,  and  I 
finished  hastily,  "  a  remarkable  coincidence,"  and  my 
face  flushed  annoyingly. 

"  Um-m,  yes ;  and  you  are  the  very  sort  of  girl 
Francis  Randolph  would  fancy,"  she  went  on, 
quietly.  "  Most  people  would  not  say  so ;  but  you 
are." 

"  I  believe  you  are  mistaken,"  I  returned.  "  I 
have  hardly  any  of  the  qualities  he  commends  in 
woman.  He  told  me  once  about  his  ideal  woman, 
and  I  arn  just  diametrically  op —  " 

The  doctor  burst' out  laughing.  "  Oh,  of  course !  " 
she  agreed.  "  He  thinks  he  admires  a  tender,  cling- 
ing, modest-violet  sort  of  creature  —  who  would 
drive  him  to  drink  and  destruction  from  pure  weari- 
ness and  disgust,  within  a  year." 

"  He  thinks? "  I  suggested,  rather  diffidently. 
"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  Why  shouldn't  he  know 
what  he  wants?  I  do." 

"  I  doubt  it,"  returned  the  doctor.  "  Women  have 
a  little  more  self-knowledge  than  men;  but  I'll  ven- 
ture a  guess  that  you  are  thinking,  about  now,  that 
Frank  Randolph  is  an  ideal  sort  of  fellow  —  you 
would  be  likely  to,  if  he  fancies  you." 


2o8         +>        The  Last  Word  «^ 

"  Oh,  but  I  don't !  "  I  broke  in.  "  I  lo—  like  him 
immensely;  but  I  find  him  overbearing,  crude,  and 
narrow.  He  is  strong  —  almost  cruelly  strong ;  - 
clear-headed,  resolute;  and  he  has  fine  gifts.  Where 
he  is  indifferent  —  I  mean  where  that  bitter  pride  of 
self-mastery  and  invincibleness  has  not  been  aroused 
or  challenged  —  he  has  the  most  perfect,  the  most 
graceful  and  charming  bearing  I  have  ever  known. 
He  —  it  seems  to  me  that,  in  this  humour,  he  would 
be  —  I  mean  it  seriously  —  irresistible  to  any  one  he 
desired  to  make  love  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  quite  agree  there." 

"  But  it  would  be  a  woman  of  childish  mind,  or 
a  slavish  nature,  or  one  lacking  knowledge  and 
experience,  who  would  yield  to  the  emotion,  once 
she  knew  him  a  little." 

The  doctor  only  nodded. 

"  He  ought  to  be  everything  fine  and  admirable 
and  desirable,"  I  went  on.  "  He  has  it  all  in  him. 
But  it  is  obscured  by  a  strange  sort  of  ancient  igno- 
rance, arrogance,  wilful  blindness;  and  a  capacity 
for  serene  tyranny  that  ought  to  appal  any  girl." 

"  Go  on,"  prompted  the  doctor,  as  I  paused. 

"  Well,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  if  he 
could  be  brought  to  see  these  faults  they  would  drop 
away  from  him ;  but  that  is  what  I  find  in  him,  now. 
I  am  afraid  life  would  have  to  do  terrible  things  to 
him  before  he  would  be  what  he  thinks  himself  now 
—  ready  to  '  make  a  woman's  happiness.' ' 

Then  I  saw  what  I  had  admitted ;  but  there  was 
no  going  back. 

"  Bravo !  "  cried  the  doctor.  "  You  are  worth 
saving.  I  see  how  it  is,  and  I  would  not  have  be- 
lieved that  any  girl  of  your  age  could  have  brought 


«f»         A  Doctor  of  Philosophy     «$»      209 

so  much  level-headed  common  sense  away  from  close 
contact  with  Francis  Randolph's  fascination.  I 
don't  see  why  you  are  not  the  girl  for  him,  after 
all!" 

"  Oh,  no,"  I  murmured.  "  We  quarrel  all  the 
time.  He  wants  me  made  over  into  something  else 

—  into  the  kind  of  person  that  I  should  loathe." 
"  And  that  he  would,  too,"  put  in  the  doctor. 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  I  debated. 

"  Certainly,"  she  maintained.  "  That  is  a  mascu- 
line characteristic,  and  it  runs  particularly  strong  in 
men  of  unusual  force.  I  have  a  theory  on  the  subject 

—  I  have  on  most  subjects.    You  see  it  is  like  this : 
There  is  a  certain  set  of  traits  which  a  man  admires 
in  a  woman ;  which  he  really  admires,  I  mean,  though 
he  may  not  himself  know  it.    These  traits  he  wishes 
to  see  in  their  full  perfection  in  the  woman  he  loves ; 
so  he  picks  out  a  girl  who  makes  a  good  showing  of 
them,  and  he  begins  unconsciously  to  test  her  for 
them." 

"  That  sounds  awfully  cool-headed,"  I  laughed. 
"  Maybe  they  fall  in  love  that  way  in  Boston ;  but 
down  South  —  in  Texas  —  " 

"  Oh,  he  doesn't  do  it  consciously,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "  It  is  purely  subjective.  And  subjective 
movements,  in  such  matters,  are  all  that  count. 
There  speaks  the  soul  itself.  Take  your  own  case 
as  an  example.  Mr.  Randolph  really  —  in  the 
depths  of  his  being,  and  unknown  to  himself  —  ad- 
mires, above  all  else,  intellect  and  force  and  inde- 
pendence in  a  woman  —  the  capacity  to  guide  her 
own  life,  and  the  resolution  to  do  so.  He  thinks  he 
does  not,  but  he  does.  And,  unknown  to  himself,  he 
is  continually  encroaching,  to  find  whether  you  have 


2io         <&>         The  Last  Word  «$» 

enough  of  the  strength  which  he  admires,  to  with- 
stand him  —  the  independence  and  force  which  he 
really  loves,  to  resent  his  overbearing  attitude  and 
live  your  own  life  in  spite  of  him.  If  you  have 
them,  if  you  can  do  that,  can  hold  your  own  with 
him,  he'll  adore  you  for  ever.  Selah !  I  have  spoken. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  theories  to  fit  all  cases ;  but 
I  never  give  an  ounce  of  advice.  I  diagnose,  you 
see;  but  I  don't  prescribe.  So  you  need  not  be 
frightened.  Good  night!"  and  she  was  gone. 

I  had,  of  course,  no  word  from  Frank. 

Miss  Bucks's  letters  were  unexpectedly  delightful. 
"Why  the  delight  should  have  been  unexpected,  I  can 
scarcely  say.  She  possessed  a  wonderfully  terse, 
direct,  forcible  style,  which  had  always,  to  my  think- 
ing, sat  upon  her  "  Fashions  and  Fancies  "  with  the 
appropriateness  of  a  suit  of  chain  mail  on  a  ballet 
dancer.  She  was  not,  however,  writing  Fashions 
and  Fancies  to  me,  and  I  had  the  full  benefit  of  an 
epistolary  manner  so  brief  and  trenchant  that  it 
omitted  all  mention  of  Frank. 

Starved  upon  a  diet  of  her  letters,  two  brief  offi- 
cial communications  from  Mr.  DeWitt,  a  note  from 
Miss  Salem,  and  the  fattest  of  round  robins  from  the 
Corcorans,  I  finally  made  myself  believe  it  would  be 
quite  the  thing  to  write  to  Bushrod.  I  had  had 
letters  from  him  while  I  was  in  Washington  —  why 
was  it  not  just  courteous  and  proper  for  me 
to  answer? 

And  in  less  than  half  an  hour  after  I  arrived  at 
this  dishonest  conclusion,  I  went  in  to  lunch  and 
found  beside  my  plate  a  tiny  envelope,  only  a  size 
bigger  than  a  visiting-card. 


«f»         A   Doctor  of  Philosophy     «9»      211 

It  did  contain  a  card,  and  upon  it  was  written  in 
Bushrod  Floyd's  dainty  chirography  — 

"  There  was  once  a  very  foolish  man,  who  had  a  foolish  way 
Of  looking  for  a  letter,  every  day  —  Oh,  every  day ! 
He  almost  fainted  at  what  time  he  heard  the  postman's  call; 
And  when  that  letter  never  came  —  just  never  came  at  all  — 
He  fell  on  heavy  pondering  (he  was  foolish  past  belief) 
If  folks  perish  just  of  longing,  and  if  many  die  of  grief? 
Oh,  when  no  letter  ever  came,  this  man  his  heart  was  sore ; 
He  said  in  bitterness  of  soul  he'd  never  look  no  more. 
Would  he  not  ?  He's  looking  —  looking  —  looking  for  it  still. 
His  life  is  just  an  empty  place  that  nothing  else  can  fill !  " 

There  was  no  signature,  but  I  felt  I  held  in  my 
hand  the  key  to  the  difficulty.  Bushrod  had  writ- 
ten me  twice  while  I  was  in  Washington  —  I  ac- 
tually owed  him  a  letter.  What  more  natural  than 
that  I  should  write  him? 

It  is  one  of  the  proofs  of  the  evil  of  such  a  pas- 
sion as  then  ruled  my  heart,  blind,  overbearing,  im- 
perious, that  it  makes  those  who  experience  it  cruel 
to  all  other  suffering  because  of  their  own. 

Any  right-minded  person,  who  had  read  poor 
Bushrod  Floyd's  verse,  would  certainly  have  spared 
him,  and,  having  nothing  to  offer,  would  have  let 
him  alone. 

But  I  was  scarcely  a  right-minded  person.  I 
feverishly  put  aside  this  clear,  kind  view  of  the 
case,  calling  it  nonsense,  conceit,  vanity.  I  told 
myself  many  plausible  untruths,  none  of  which  I 
believed  for  an  instant,  and  wrote  to  Bushrod. 

I  professed  an  ardent  admiration  for  the  amount 
of  news,  pictorial  and  otherwise,  contained  in  the 
first  letter  he  wrote  to  me,  in  Washington.  I  told 


212         «^»         The  Last  Word  *& 

him  all  the  things  that  had  happened  to  me,  what  I 
had  done  and  thought  and  felt  —  it  was  like  what  I 
imagined  talking  to  one's  mother  would  be  —  writ- 
ing, or  talking  to  Bushrod ;  so  sure  was  one  of  full 
sympathy  and  understanding.  I  urged  a  present 
longing  for  full  details  of  the  office  doings.  I  in- 
ferentially  held  out  hopes  of  other  and  better  letters 
to  follow,  if  this  were  promptly  replied  to. 

And  I  received,  in  just  four  and  twenty  hours,  a 
voluminous  letter,  of  which  this  is  a  portion: 

'  You  are  as  wonderful  as  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  be,  plus  all  that  I  did  not  know  enough  to 
expect  in  the  world. 

"  That  letter !  It  was  an  energetic  thing  to  come 
from  the  immediate  hand  of  the  meek  man  who  is 
substituting  for  our  postman.  I  dote  on  that  man. 
He  has  a  bad  eye,  a  bad  breath,  a  green,  greasy, 
lacerated  coat,  and  he  is  shy  one  finger  on  the  hand 
that  holds  the  letters.  But  he  was  the  divinely 
appointed  factor  in  the  transmission  of  your  precious 
document.  Let  the  breath  and  the  finger  go;  he  is 
the  man  for  me. 

"  I  knew  by  my  sixth  sense  (which  is  devoted 
entirely  to  matters  concerning  you)  from  whom  the 
missive  was.  I  thought  him  outrageously  cool.  I 
wondered  that  he  walked  so  slow,  and  I  speculated 
that  he  would  certainly  hear  my  heart  bouncing 
against  my  spareribs.  It  gave  an  extra  tremendous 
bump  when  he  handed  me  your  letter.  What  riches ! 
I  could  have  kissed  him !  And  as  I  have  told  you,  he 
is  a  very  plain  man. 

"  I  looked  out  of  the  window  and  trifled  long  with 
my  happiness  before  I  opened  that  letter.  It  had 
come  by  the  last  delivery.  The  sun  was  going  down. 


«$»         A  Doctor  of  Philosophy     «$>      213 

It  could  go  down,  and  be  hanged  to  it  —  I  had  the 
aurora  borealis  in  my  fist !  " 

After  giving  me  various  sprightly  details  of  per- 
sons and  things  for  which  he  well  knew  I  cared  little 
(poor  Bushrod!  he  was  of  that  oversensitive,  over- 
considerate  class  which  would  hand  a  blind  man  the 
morning  paper  to  convince  him  that  his  affliction 
had  not  been  remarked)  — after  all  this,  he  said: 

"  Just  as  I  finished  giving  it  its  seventeenth  read- 
ing, Frank  came  in;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  our 
lives,  he  seemed  to  me  a  common,  unsuccessful  sort 
of  person ;  and  poor  —  he  had  no  letter  from  you. 
I  hasten  to  add  here,  that  this  observation  was  no 
intrusion  upon  private,  personal  affairs.  He  who 
runs  may  read.  There  could  be  no  mistake  made. 
Nobody  could  look  at  Frank's  face  and  not  under- 
stand at  once  that  he  has  no  letter  from  you. 

"  Ah,  next  to  your  dear  self,  which  is  surely  best 
of  all  created  things,  is  a  letter  from  you." 

That  was  all,  but  it  made  me  wish  —  What  ? 
What?  That  I  had  not  written?  No,  hardly  just 
that.  Well,  then,  the  wish  being  indefinite,  the  tears 
it  brought  to  my  eyes  and  the  ache  it  left  in  my 
heart  were  concrete  enough. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

As   Solomon   Says 

"  Stay  me  with  flagons,  comfort  me  with  apples,  for  I  am 
sick  of  love." 

I  WAS  about  to  say  that  just  before  I  went  to 
Boston  there  came  a  new  boarder  to  our  house. 

But  to  say  so  would  not  be  to  state  the  thing  with 
impartial  truthfulness.  He  did  not  board  with  us 
at  all,  he  was  only  our  constant  visitor,  to  speak 
frankly,  our  sister's  beau,  this  young  man. 

When  I  came  to  live  with  the  Corcorans,  he  and 
Miss  Phyllis  were  in  the  acute  stage  which  has  hot 
fits  and  cold  fits  and  intermissions.  Now  their 
engagement  was  announced,  and  the  young  man  had 
become  chronic. 

They  intended  to  be  married  some  time  and  go 
to  live  in  Mexico,  where  he  had  an  uncle,  and  where 
it  was  thought  he  would  "  do  well." 

Meantime,  he  brought  to  our  house  many  volumes 
of  travel,  Mexican  guide-books,  Spanish  lexicons, 
and  phrase-books.  Every  evening  after  dinner,  he 
and  she  mingled  their  tresses  over  these  studies, 
which  included  much  whispering  and  giggling,  and 
a  very  little  Spanish. 

I  could  not  know  when  I  came  so  gaily  and  gladly 
to  dwell  in  this  pleasant  little  home  that  it  was  soon 

214 


«^»  As  Solomon  Says         «$»         215 

to  shelter  a  pair  of  blissful  engaged  lovers.  Would 
I  have  come  if  I  had  so  known?  Would  I  have 
remained  away?  Who  can  say?  Of  what  avail  to 
escape  one  such  pair  when  the  street-cars,  the  fer- 
ries, the  offices,  homes,  highways  and  byways  were 
alive,  in  short,  the  whole  world  was  swarming  with 
them  ? 

I  was  singularly  haunted  and  beset.  For 
some  time  I  sought  vainly  the  explanation  of  my 
strange  prepossession  —  this  thing  which  I  called  a 
sending  of  young  lovers.  No  need  to  ask  what 
enemy  had  sent  it;  there  is  a  state  of  mind  which 
renders  one  clairvoyant  to  similar  conditions  in 
others.  This  talisman  draws  to  him  who  carries  it 
(whether  hidden  or  worn  openly)  knowledge  and 
sight  of  others  in  that  same  brotherhood  of  pain, 
until  the  whole  world  seems  to  be  initiate,  its 
rnemberhood  throbbing  with  his  ache,  failing  with 
his  failure,  or  taunting  his  lack  with  its  perfect 
fulfilment. 

There  was  our  cook.  Now  a  cook,  you  would 
say,  might  reasonably  be  expected  to  be  fat  and 
red-faced. 

Not  if  she -cooked  where  I  lived.  No;  not  if  I 
boarded  where  she  cooked.  Ours  was  young  and 
good-looking,  and  she  had  a  young  man  who  knew 
this,  and  was  much  pleased  about  it. 

The  waitress  was  also  pretty,  and  she  and  her 
beau,  when  they  went  out  of  a  Sunday  afternoon, 
were  an  ecstatic  and  devoted  pair. 

But  the  waitress  next  door  was  the  prettiest 
creature  on  the  block.  She  had  curly  red  hair,  a 
saucy  nose,  and  great,  deep  Irish  blue  eyes ;  and  so 
fair  as  she,  so  deep  in  love  was  the  grocer's  young 


2i6         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$> 

man,  who  was  also  her  young  man.  My  window 
overlooked  their  bit  of  flag-walked  and  velvet- 
swarded  back  yard,  commonly  the  theatre  of  their 
little  love  scenes,  her  coquetries,  and  his  protesta- 
tions. 

As  I  walked  along  the  street  (brooding,  maybe, 
over  a  heartache,  but  intent  upon  my  own  business, 
and  I  do  protest,  harming  no  one),  fond  couples 
came  around  corners  and  met  me  face  to  face,  or 
overtook  and  passed  me  —  hurrying  to  leave  man- 
kind and  escape  to  the  blissful  solitude  of  their  own 
society.  And  if  I  went  into  an  office,  even  for  a 
moment,  the  bookkeeper  would  instantly  forsake  his 
desk  to  go  and  lean  over  the  stenographer,  who 
replied  to  his  fond  glances  with  glances  as  fond. 

Those,  our  own  young  lovers,  the  sister  of  the 
house  and  her  swain,  were  Phyllis  and  Cory  don  in 
the  flesh.  Oh,  they  were  "  plumb  symbolical,"  as 
Jim  said.  And  I  had  them,  like  the  poor,  always 
with  me. 

I  was  not  — indeed,  and  in  good  faith  I  was  not 
—  sour,  nor  crusty,  nor  cynical,  nor  envious.  I  bore 
the  sight  of  their  fond  looks,  their  sweet  oblivious- 
ness  to  all  the  outer  world,  at  all  sorts  of  odd  hours 
of  the  day  and  several  evenings  a  week,  without  a 
murmur  of  cheap  witticism.  They  were,  both  of 
them,  pretty  and  agreeable,  and  I  liked  them.  I 
wished  them  all  possible  joy,  and  rejoiced  for  them 
that  their  engagement  was  to  be  a  long  one,  that 
they  might  yet  for  months  —  even  years  —  wait  in 
this  sweet  vestibule,  which  was  made  fair  and  beau- 
tiful with  all  hope  and  trust,  warmed  and  irradiated 
by  the  great  sun  which  shines  in  the  sacred  hall 
beyond;  that  they  might  still  sing  this  tender  and 


•^  As  Solomon  Says         «f»         217 

harmonious  prelude  and  walk  about  in  this  soft  and 
lovely  Beulah,  holding  each  other's  hands,  looking 
in  each  other's  eyes,  where  all  wine  is  nectar,  all 
music  harmony,  all  airs  balmy,  all  thought  rapture. 

But  I  did  think  it  pretty  hard,  when  the  weather 
was  bad,  and  when  what  the  little  red-haired  wait- 
ress next  door,  with  whom  I  had  scraped  acquaint- 
ance that  I  might  learn  the  secret  of  her  perennial 
bliss,  called  "  the  Littra-cher  bisness  "  was  dull  and 
a  burden,  while  Frank  still  looked  at  me  with  alien 
eyes,  and  the  key  of  the  little  studio  rusted  unused 
in  my  jacket  pocket,  that  my  homesick  and  over- 
wrought heart  should  be  so  persistently  flouted, 
as  it  were,  and  affronted  by  the  sight  of  their  clean- 
swept,  cut-and-dried,  set-in-order  felicity,  and  made 
to  feel  with  poor  Orlando,  "  What  a  bitter  thing  it  is 
to  look  into  happiness  through  another  man's  eyes." 

In  all  this  swelling  chorus  of  love  and  dove,  of 
bliss  and  kiss,  and  eyes  and  sighs,  and  wiles  and 
smiles,  poor  Genevieve  alone  struck  a  minor  chord. 

When  I  came  back  to  New  York,  I  found  that 
my  Boston  work  had  been  giving  special  satis- 
faction. 

I  had  a  bit  of  extra  matter  with  me  —  not  to  shirk 
the  truth,  it  was  verse  —  I  had  called  it  — 

A   LITERARY   LOVELACE. 

I  will  not  think  me  light  that  I 

Amend  me  of  my  pain, 
Turning,  with  cheeks  but  lately  dry, 

To  smile  at  life  again. 

Sure,  a  new  sweetheart  now  I  woo, 

The  fickle  charmer  Fame ; 
And  seek,  synthetically,  to  know 

What  goes  to  make  a  name. 


2i8         «£»         The  Last  Word  «9» 

This  is  inconstancy,  yet  still 

Yourself  will  own,  I  know, 
I  could  not  woo  her  half  so  well 

Had  I  not  loved  you  so. 

So  ran  the  rhyme  which  Mr.  DeWitt  was  pleased 
to  commend  as  warmly  as  even  I  thought  it  de- 
served. It  turned  out  later  that  he  was  in  one  of 
what  I  had  come  to  call  his  melting  moods. 

"  That's  all,  then?  "  I  said,  as  I  rose  and  gathered 
my  belongings  for  departure ;  when  "  Let  me  keep 
this  till  to-morrow,"  fell  in  dulcet  tones  upon  my 
ear,  and  Mr.  DeWitt  covered  the  bit  of  verse  with 
his  hand,  delivering  pointblank  at  me  what  a  Fiji 
Islander  would  have  recognised  as  a  languishing 
glance. 

But  I  was  looking  for  business,  not  sentiment,  and 
in  my  impenetrable  stupidity,  I  could  not  see  any- 
thing else. 

"  Why,  no !  "  I  shouted,  in  alarm,  "  I'll  need  that 
to-night  if  I  am  to  get  it  in  shape  for  the  next  issue." 

I  had  reached  the  door  before  the  curious,  abashed 
look  with  which  he  huffily  handed  it  over,  and  his 
ruffled  silence,  began  to  be  significant  to  me.  He 
had  been  at  leisure,  in  an  expansive  humour,  and 
had  thought  to  do  a  little  casual  philandering  for 
my  behoof  and  his  own  amusement.  The  sudden 
enlightenment  struck  me  rigid. 

"  Here,"  I  said  loudly,  wheeling  and  presenting 
the  thing  at  arm's  length,  "  you  keep  it  if  you  want 
to;  I  can  use  the  rough  draft  to  work  over.  I 
beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  realise  that  you  wanted 
to  be  sentimental  about  it." 

He  looked  at  me  dangerously,  and  I  added  with 


«$»  As  Solomon  Says         «$>         219 

kind  generosity,  "  It  is  never  my  way,  and  you 
know  it,  to  spoil  a  bit  of  practice  like  that." 

"  Go  away,  you  unspeakable  barbarian,"  he 
answered,  a  little  fiercely  —  but  he  was  laughing. 

So  I  went.  But  outside  the  door  something 
stopped  me.  I  stood  there  seeing  mentally  Gene- 
vieve's  patient  English  tan  eyes  following  him  about 
the  room,  dumbly  interrogating  his  well-fitted  back 
what  time  he  was  pleased  to  be  brusque  with  her; 
answering  with  that  loving  gratitude  you  see  in  the 
eyes  of  a  spaniel  if  he  bore  himself  toward  her  with 
amiable  complaisance;  or  kindling  with  naive  and 
pitiful  delight  —  poor  girl  —  when  he  was  seized 
with  the  rare  fancy  for  passing  her  out  some  such 
slovenly  unhandsome  lump  of  sentimental  confec- 
tionery as  this  I  had  just  been  offered. 

The  big  room  was  silent  and  empty.  It  was  lunch 
time;  all  the  others  were  out,  while  Mr.  DeWitt 
had  not  yet  gone.  I  turned,  opened  the  door,  and 
put  in  my  head. 

"  Don't  —  don't  do  it,"  I  fired  at  him,  with  tone 
duly  lowered  to  miss  a  distant  stenographer  clicking 
away  at  her  machine. 

"  Do  what  ?  "  he  ejaculated,  looking  up  startled, 
from  some  proof-sheets. 

"  Why,  this  sort  of  thing,"  I  explained,  carefully 
introducing  a  hand  and  arm  to  gesticulate  and  dem- 
onstrate with.  "  Of  course  you're  entirely  welcome 
to  try  your  wiles  upon  me  as  much  as  you  like  —  I 
don't,  mind.  But  I  am  almost  useless  where  quick 
artistic  appreciation  is  required.  I'm  absent-minded, 
and  never  notice  a  thing  '  until  the  earthquake  hath 
passed  by ; '  and  then  you  are  mad." 

"  Oh,  no!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  do  yourself  rank 


iio         «$»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

injustice.  I  never  met  a  more  dexterous  flirt.  Think 
of  the  exquisite  coquetry  of  your  rejoinder  a  mo- 
ment ago.  I've  —  " 

Mr.  DeWitt  was  funny.  I  always  liked  him  when 
he  was  funny;  but  I  was  not  to  be  diverted.  With 
my  eye  fixed  seriously  upon  him,  I  continued  as 
though  he  had  not  spoken. 

"  And  as  for  anything  —  er  —  anybody  else  — 
it  is  —  well,  it  is  too  easy,  don't  you  think  ?  It  is  not 
worthy  of  your  —  talents  ?  " 

"  You  flatter  me,"  he  began,  in  what  tried  to  be 
a  sarcastic  voice,  though  his  eye,  honester  than  his 
intention,  fell  before  mine,  and  the  red  rose  in  his 
face ;  "  you  suggest  an  altogether  too  high  estimate 
of  my  fascinations." 

"  I  tell  you,"  I  declared,  growing  in  assurance, 
"  you  are  animated  by  exactly  the  same  lofty  spirit 
which  fires  the  bad,  mean  little  boy  who  steals  apples 
he  doesn't  want,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  '  showing 
off." 

"  Hold  there,  my  fiery  young  Western  Advocate. 
You  are  just  like  a  woman  —  " 

Mr.  DeWitt  had  made  this  observation  (in  a 
modified  form  and  where  I  could  not  well  resent  it) 
many  times  before.  Now,  the  instant  he  said  it,  I 
came  inside  and  slammed  the  door  behind  me. 

"  You  say  I  am  just  like  a  woman,  Mr.  DeWitt !  " 
I  exclaimed,  bearing  down  upon  him  so  rapidly  that 
he  looked  a  trifle  wild.  "  That's  a  strange  accusation 
for  you  to  bring  against  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  if 
a  man,  even  the  average  man  —  a  creature  of  very 
ordinary  brains  and  comprehension  compared  with 
you  —  would  sit  down,  put  his  head  in  his  hands, 
and  try  with  all  his  might  to  think,  he  might  make 


+  As  Solomon  Says         «$»         221 

a  shift  to  realise  the  —  the  foolishness  of  such  a 
charge." 

"  The  deuce  he  might !  "  echoed  Mr.  DeWitt  with 
some  warmth. 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  might.  Just  like  a  woman ! 
What  would  he  expect  a  woman  to  be  just  like, 
should  you  say?  What  do  you  suppose  he  would 
wish  to  have  her  like  ?  What  should  you,  yourself, 
for  instance,  choose  to  have  a  woman  like?  A 
camel?  A  weasel?  An  ostrich?  Or,  worse  yet, 
a  man  ?  " 

Mr.  DeWitt,  whose  fine  temper  never  stays  riled 
long,  murmured  something  which  sounded  like 
"  dove,"  but  it  regarded  me  not. 

"  When  I  do  my  unhoused  free  condition  put  into 
circumspection,"  I  said,  "  and  take  a  husband " 
("  Poor  soul !  my  heart  bleeds  for  him !  "  ejaculated 
Mr.  DeWitt  parenthetically),  "  he  will  undoubtedly 
have  some  faults  and  failings  —  possibly  very  bad 
ones." 

"  Heaven  send  he  may,"  said  Mr.  DeWitt,  cor- 
dially, "  for  you  need  'em  —  him,  and  the  faults." 

"  Being  a  man,"  I  continued,  "  he  may  —  nay, 
he  will  —  forget  to  mail  my  letters.  He  is  like  to 
swear  more  than  reason  —  " 

"  Being  your  husband,"  interjected  Mr.  DeWitt, 
"  he  may  have  provocation." 

"  He  may  even,  on  rare  occasions  (not  loudly  nor 
vulgarly,  but  in  a  quiet,  gentlemanly  way),  get  drunk 
and  beat  me  —  " 

"Sure!"  cried  Mr.  DeWitt,  heartily,  "sure  — 
what's  he  there  for  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  admit  these  things  as  possible 
to  befall,  and  for  sufficient  compensating  advantages, 


222         «$»         The  Last  Word  «^» 

to  be  borne;  but  he  must  never,  never  go  so  far 
as  to  accuse  me  of  being  just  like  a  woman.  For 
whatever  betide,  I  shall  never  remind  him  that  he 
is  like  a  man.  I  shall  want  him  to  be  like  one. 
Indeed,  unless  he  is  so  like  that  you  would  take 
him  to  be  one,  I  shall  not  want  him  at  all." 

"  And  don't  take  him,  anyhow,"  counselled  my 
editor. 

"  However,  all  this  is  beside  the  question  — 
I  began,  but  he  jumped  up  suddenly. 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  put  up  with  it !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Say  another  word  about  —  about  your  nonsense, 
and  I'll  fire  you,  miss  —  and  without  a  char-ack- 
ter,  too!" 

As  I  backed  warily  outside,  made  ready  to  with- 
draw my  head  and  shut  the  door,  he  said  something 
about  a  Woman's  Rights  club,  and  giving  my  tal- 
ents a  show,  and  then  laughed  genially. 

But  I  observed  that  it  was  somehow  impossible 
to  him  thereafter  —  at  least  when  I  was  about  — 
to  put  Genevieve  through  her  paces  in  quite  so 
wanton  a  manner  as  had  been  his  custom.  It  was 
true,  she  looked  always  depressed.  Her  mutely 
questioning  eyes,  raised  from  articles  on  "  Plaid 
Silk  Hose,"  or  "  Taffeta  for  Hats,"  dumbly  inter- 
rogated Mr.  DeWitt's  uniformly  polite  and  unre- 
sponsive profile.  But  I  would  rather  see  her  thus, 
than  walking  about  in  a  fool's  paradise,  smiling  fatu- 
ously because  his  "  yes  "  or  "  no  "  or  "  good  morn- 
ing "  had  been  said  to  her  in  a  "  tone  of  voice,"  or 
accompanied  by  a  "  look."  And  though  it  did  pain 
me  —  the  utter  uselessness  of  it  all,  or  what  in  mere 
mortal  eyes  seemed  useless  and  uncalled  for  —  I  said 
to  myself  grimly,  "  I  have  demonstrated  in  my 


«£»  As  Solomon  Says         «f»         223 

own  proper  person  that  heartache  is  not  fatal.  Gene- 
vieve  has  a  good,  stout  constitution.  Let  her  take 
her  medicine.  It  will  not  kill  her;  and  since  she 
seems  to  be  a  simple  fool,  why,  she  needs  must  have 
it,  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

Always  and  always  in  those  weary  days,  I  was 
fighting  the  desire  to  go  back  to  the  little  studio 
—  and  what  I  told  myself  was  happy  bondage.  I 
had  not  met  Frank  once  at  the  office,  and  realised 
now  that  our  frequent  encounters  in  the  past  had  not 
been  altogether  the  result  of  chance. 

The  little  key  in  my  pocket  tempted  me,  and 
laughed  at  my  barren  strength  of  denial.  "  Go  to," 
whispered  the  bit  of  metal  to  my  finger  ends,  "  am  I 
not  the  talisman  to  unlock  the  door. to  your  treasure 
room,  where  is  held  waiting  for  you  all  the  wealth  of 
all  the  Universe?  " 

To  go  meant,  of  course,  surrender.  To  remain 
away,  never  even  to  get  my  manuscript,  would  be 
held,  I  knew,  all  unkindness,  all  forsaking. 

Finally,  choosing  the  hour  when  Frank,  under  any 
circumstances,  would  surely  be  at  his  lunch,  I  put 
the  key  in  my  pocket  and  went. 

There  was  nobody  about,  but  the  door  was  un- 
locked. I  surmised  that  Lemuel  was  within, 
cleaning. 

But  no,  the  room  was  empty.  I  looked  about  it, 
and  my  eyes  filled  with  tears.  The  dear,  dear  little 
room !  scene  of  so  much  bliss,  and  so  much  misery. 
No  other  four  walls  could  ever  shut  in  a  space  which 
would  be  to  me  the  same. 

Then  there  was  a  long  impatient  sigh,  and  Frank 
rose  up  from  the  easel  which  had  concealed  him,  and 


224        «$*         Tne  Last  Word  -^ 

came  toward  me.  Such  a  strange,  worn,  sorrowful 
Frank  —  such  a  radiant  Frank! 

"  O  dearest !  "  he  cried.  "  You  did  come  back. 
You  couldn't  hold  out  against  love  and  me!  "  And 
straightway  his  arms  were  about  me,  and  I  was  at 
peace. 

"  You  don't  know  how  I  have  missed  you,"  he 
went  on,  when  after  a  time  we  sat  together,  talking 
things  over.  "  Maybe  you  think  I've  been  able  to  do 
one  stroke  of  work  since  my  wayward  sweetheart 
deserted  me.  Maybe  you  think  I've  been  a  pleasant 
person  to  have  about.  Maybe  you  think  I  didn't 
come  down  to  this  old  shack  forty  times  a  day  and 
ask  Lemuel  if  there'd  been  any  angels  in  since  my 
last  call." 

He  came  over  and  knelt  beside  me.  "  Yes,  it's 
Cara,"  he  whispered.  "  Those  are  her  very  same 
eyes.  Those  are  her  hands  —  you'd  never  come 
back  and  leave  any  of  the  sweetness  —  any  bit  of 
the  heart  of  my  girl  —  in  Boston." 

I  admitted,  in  suitable  language,  that  not  Carring- 
ton  West,  an  individual,  but  Francis  Randolph's 
sweetheart,  a  thing,  had  returned,  complete,  to  him 
who  desired  and  owned  her. 

"  Bless  your  flashing  sunny  soul !  Maybe  it  isn't 
good  to  have  you  back  —  maybe  I  won't  keep  you, 
now  I've  got  you !  "  he  murmured. 

Alas,  for  the  doctor's  excellent  theories!  Alas, 
for  my  more  than  excellent  resolution  to  profit  by 
what  I  knew  to  be  the  truth ! 

"  O  Frank,"  I  hurried  on,  "  I  am  so  glad  you 
can  care  to  have  me  back  again,  and  that  you  aren't 
going  to  scold  me  or  find  fault  with  me." 

"  Fault !  "  echoed  Frank,  in  open  horror.    "  Why, 


^  As  Solomon  Says        «$»         225 

where  do  you  suppose  your  faults  are?    I  have  never 
found  any  in  you  yet." 

"  Oh,  I've  got  them  all  right,"  I  answered ;  and 
of  course  should  have  added,  "  So  have  you.  We 
are  two  very  faulty  people  who  could  be  much  to 
each  other  if  we  would  but  recognise  this  and  be 
reasonable." 

"  You  have  faults,  have  you  ?  "  inquired  Frank. 
<:  Well,  when  do  you  suppose  they  are  going  to  put 
in  an  appearance?  According  to  theory,  you  would 
be  tame  without  them,  but  it  is  a  mistaken  theory 
after  all.  Your  good  points  are  so  fascinating,  so 
irresistible,  so  interesting,  that  you  don't  need  any 
defects  to  set  them  off.  What  is  the  good  of  a 
defect  anyway  ?  I've  half  a  mind  to  get  rid  of  some 
of  mine." 

Do  you  believe,  with  so  sweet  a  bid  as  that  for 
the  things  an  overfond  heart  is  always  too  ready 
to  say,  that  I  let  him  go  on  supposing  I  could  see  any 
defect  in  him?  Not  I!  For  what  was  I  given  a 
gift  of  eloquence  if  not  for  this  sole  use  —  that  I 
should  burn  more  beautiful  incense  than  another 
woman  could  at  the  shrine  of  Frank? 

It  was  a  halcyon  time.  I  knew,  and  perhaps 
Frank  did  as  well,  that  there  was  no  foundation,  no 
stability  to  our  peace ;  yet  I  closed  my  eyes  to  doubts 
and  questionings  and  enjoyed  the  blissful  present. 

"  What  happy  days  we  shall  have  working  to- 
gether," murmured  Frank,  finally. 

"The  dear,  blessed  work!"  I  echoed.  "I  shall 
do  better  than  I  have  ever  done.  I  feel  that  I  shall 
be  able  to  please  you,  because  it  is  for  you.  Nothing 
but  the  best  is  good  enough  for  it." 

"  Don't  think,  dear,"  said  Frank,  "  that  I  do  not 


226         -P»         The  Last  Word  <*» 

consider  all  of  your  work  superb,  if  I  say  that  I 
believe  you  will  indeed  do  better.  Why,  look  at  it ! 
Such  affection  as  ours  is  a  fire  of  inspiration.  It 
is  not  devastating.  It  burns  on  the  altar  of  peace. 
It  warms  and  enlightens.  How  can  you  help  doing 
finer  things  than  you  have  ever  done !  " 

I  was  beginning  to  feel  unhappy.  Indeed,  Neme- 
sis had  me,  her  scrawny  arm  locked  tight  about  my 
aching  throat.  I  clearly  recognised  in  myself  that 
pitiful  being  who  goes  to  the  dentist  to  have  out  a 
bad  tooth — a  notoriously  bad  tooth,  and  one  roundly 
and  publicly  devoted  to  the  forceps;  whose  poor 
heart  fails  him  at  sight  of  the  cold  steel,  his  faltering 
tongue  inquires  the  time  of  day,  or  asks  if  Mr. 
Smith  be  in,  and  his  craven  feet  creep  thence  with 
him. 

From  this  unwelcome  picture  of  my  spiritual 
self,  I  turned  feverishly  to  discussion  of  the  big 
book.  "  Show  me  your  drawings,"  I  urged,  "  all 
that  you  did  while  I  was  gone.  I  have  an  idea  that 
I  want  to  write  out  and  submit  to  you.  It  will 
need  special  pictures." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  did  no  good  while  you 
were  gone  ?  "  Frank  asked.  "  That  was  because 
we  parted  in  anger.  Oh,  you  are  a  power,  little 
girl.  You  can  make  and  unmake  me  as  you  choose. 
I  never  take  up  my  pencil  now  without  thinking  of 
yours.  It  is  so  sweet  to  think  of  their  going  into 
battle  together.  We'll  put  up  a  great  fight,  won't  we, 
dearest  ?  " 

I  was  a  power  because  I  could  make  or  unmake 
him! 

Even  in  the  midst  of  my  blindness,  I  had  sense  to 


«$»  As  Solomon  Says         «£»         227 

know  and  remember  that  I  should  be  a  power  only 
as  I  made  or  unmade  my  own  soul. 

"  Frank,"  I  announced  presently,  "  I  consulted  an 
oracle  while  I  was  in  Boston,  and  she  told  me  just 
why  you  love  me.  You  don't  know  the  real  reason." 

"  Ah,  but  I  do,"  he  answered  fondly.  "  I  love 
your  fine  soul,  your  big  brain,  your  tender  heart,  — 
mother-like  as  well  as  lover-like,  —  your  priceless 
humour  and  unsmotherable  wit,  your  delightful 
presence,  your  lovely,  graceful  body,  your  unalter- 
able honesty,  and  incapacity  for  any  kind  of  hy- 
pocrisy —  oh,  and  qualities  one  cannot  set  down  in 
the  most  affectionate  catalogue.  But  I  love  you 
not  because  I  can  explain  you.  There  is  only  one 
eternal,  unanswerable  explanation  and  justification 
for  love  —  we  love  because.  And  yet,  you  know 
dear,  if  I  wanted  to,  I  could  give  more  reasons  for 
loving  you  than  would  justify  half  a  community  for 
loving  the  other  half." 

It  appeared  to  me  time  for  the  book  to  receive 
some  attention.  There  were  occasions  upon  which 
I  was  even  grateful  to  the  book.  We  planned  and 
worked  long  and  earnestly,  but  Frank  was  in  a 
rarely  tender  mood  this  day.  As  we  sat,  he  at  his 
drawing-board,  I  at  the  table,  he  called  suddenly  but 
guardedly  across  the  room  to  me, 

"Carita!" 

"What,   Frank?"   I   answered,   startled. 

"  Nothing,"  he  told  me  softly,  "  only  I  wanted  to 
remind  you  that  I'm  still  loving  you  —  you  might 
forget,  you  little  wild  thing." 

We  did  excellent  work.  Lemuel  was  with  us  a 
goodly  portion  of  the  time,  and  a  young  artist  from 


228         -^         The  Last  Word  ^ 

one  of  the  studios  beyond  came  in  to  show  us  a 
poster  design. 

Frank  had  an  engagement,  and  left  before  I  was 
ready  to  go,  Lemuel  departing  with  him.  They  had 
been  gone  but  a  moment  when  I  heard  a  quick  light 
step  upon  the  stair.  The  door  flung  open  and  Frank 
hurried  in. 

"  Forget  something?  "  I  inquired,  my  fond  glance 
running  to  welcome  and  caress  and  delight  in  the 
loved  face  and  form. 

"  No,  I  came  back  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you/' 
he  replied  laughing.  He  stood  beside  my  table 
and  dropped  an  arm  lightly  about  my  shoulders  as 
I  sat.  "  I  believe  I  have  mentioned  it  before  —  and 
in  almost  those  very  words,"  he  whispered. 

"  I  think  I  remember  your  alluding  to  something 
of  the  sort,"  I  whispered  back,  looking  up  into  his 
face  with  utter  content. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  good  idea  of  mine,"  he  maintained. 
"  It  will  bear  repeating." 

But,  despite  the  light  speech,  he  looked  down 
upon  me  with  eyes  of  passionate  tenderness. 

As  my  eyes  met  the  gaze,  love  swelled  in  my  heart 
like  pain.  Still  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  he  drew 
my  hands  from  their  work.  "  Frank,  O  Frank !  " 
I  said,  almost  with  a  sob,  "  you  are  all  of  love  to 
me  —  you  have  my  whole  heart." 

And  as  he  took  me  gently  into  his  arms,  my  face 
on  his  breast,  his  cheek  pressed  to  mine,  his  deep 
voice  murmured  in  my  ear,  "  Little  sweetheart  —  my 
little  darling — my  lamb — and  so  have  you  all  mine, 
and  all  of  me.  And  we  will  be  so  tender  of  each 
other's  love,  and  heart,  and  life.  We  will  shut  out 
all  pain  and  unlove.  Mine  —  mine  —  mine,"  he 


«^»  As  Solomon  Says         «$»         229 

whispered  again  and  again,  in  love's  own  accents  of 
breaking  tenderness  and  music.  And  then  the  sweet- 
est lips  that  ever  said  "  I  love  "  came  seeking  mine. 
And  in  my  heart  I  cried,  "  Oh,  if  I  could  go  now! 
If  I  could  close  my  eyes,  here  on  his  breast,  his  lips 
upon  mine,  his  arms  around  me,  his  heart  beating  in 
harmony  with  mine  —  only  love  and  peace  between 
and  about  us !  " 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

"  For  A   Hawk  —  A   Horse  — 
or  A   Husband" 

"  Come,  wilt  thou  see  me  ride  ? 
And  when  I  am  o'  horseback,  I  will  swear 
I  love  thee  infinitely." 

IT  had  been  a  late  season,  but  spring  was  upon 
the  land  at  last.  And  my  uneasy,  presaging  heart 
stirred  with  spring  longings  for  the  old,  free,  whole- 
some life  of  my  Texas  plains. 

I  had  found  something  touching  in  that  earlier  and 
abrupt  bursting  forth  of  all  New  York  into  light 
fresh  garments.  It  seemed  the  city  dweller's  devoir 
to  the  jocund  season,  his  method  of  indicating  that 
he,  too,  as  well  as  his  country  brother,  knows  that 
spring  is  come. 

Before  the  eye  of  memory  —  between  me  and  the 
copy  I  toiled  upon  —  was  persistently  spread  that 
wonder  of  gracious  loveliness,  a  Texas  prairie  in 
spring  flower.  Along  the  irrigating  ditches  and  in 
every  bit  of  shadow,  here  and  there,  they  clustered 
and  crowded,  blossoms  of  pale  pink,  deep  rose, 
purple,  violet,  and  pure  white.  My  introverted  sight 
beheld  the  broad  gaze  of  the  sun  to  fall  upon  whole 
slopes  of  vivid  scarlet  and  acres  of  daffodil  yellow, 
burning  gold,  the  very  concentration  and  radiance  of 

230 


"  A  Hawk  —  A  Horse  —  or  A  Husband  "    23 1 

the  living  sunshine  itself.  There  were  the  mesquite 
trees,  just  in  leaf,  looking  like  tender  green  wil- 
lows ;  the  cacti  unfolding  their  splendours  of  orange, 
blood  red,  and  rosy  pink ;  sufficient  of  themselves,  in 
their  blooming  time,  to  glorify  a  whole  region. 

Now  was  the  season  of  round-ups,  and  sheep  dip- 
pings and  shearings.  Continually,  above  the  city's 
brazen  roar,  I  heard  a  trampling  of  many  hoofs,  a 
tossing  and  clashing  of  myriad  horns,  a  multifold 
lowing  and  bleating,  the  voices  of  the  herder,  the 
dipper,  the  rustler,  the  brander,  the  hot  iron,  and 
the  bellowing,  protesting  Texas  calf. 

I  could  not  choose  but  know  how,  out  there,  the 
streams  were  up,  the  array os  running  full;  the 
whole  face  of  earth  laughing  back  to  the  laughing 
skies ;  the  air  wooing,  seductive,  intoxicating.  The 
beeves  would  begin  to  be  sleek  and  fat,  and  your 
saddle-pony,  that  was  turned  into  the  pasture  a 
month  ago  to  rest  up,  as  broncho  as  a  wild  mustang 
of  the  plains. 

And  whether  I  would  or  no,  I  must  think  of 
Nipper  and  Glass-Eye  and  Little  Bronc,  galloping 
loose  over  the  stretches  of  the  Ojo  Bravo  pastures, 
my  saddle  hanging  in  the  ranch-house  storeroom. 
And  a  kind  of  sickness  would  blow  across  me. 

I  know  that  I  chanted  this  sort  of  thing  con- 
tinually, at  the  house,  at  the  office,  and  to  Jim 
Baxter,  who  had  come  over  from  Washington,  and 
at  once  captivated  all  the  hearts  at  both  places. 

Seven  times  a  day  did  I  praise  my  native  pastures, 
celebrating  the  perennial  charm  of  their  vernal  re- 
newing, and  the  delights  of  their  spring  drama,  until 
what  time  my  editor  heard  the  sound  of  the  cornet, 
flute,  harp,  sackbut,  psaltery,  dulcimer,  and  all  kinds 


232         «*•         The  Last  Word  «^ 

of  instruments  tuning  up  for  the  accustomed  over- 
ture, he  called  a  halt  in  pretty  clear,  round  terms; 
and  Genevieve,  and  even  Mr.  Corcoran  sustained 
him. 

"  Hold  hard  there,  my  prairie  blossom,"  Mr. 
DeWitt  interrupted  me  one  day.  "  If  you  keep  up 
that  stroke  much  longer,  you'll  convince  us  it  was  a 
mistake  to  transplant  you." 

Genevieve  gave  me  a  significant  look  out  of  her 
solemn  eyes,  as  one  child  says  to  another  who  is 
under  discipline,  "  I  told  you  you'd  be  whipped  if 
you  kept  on." 

And  Mr.  Corcoran  came  in  gravely,  "  Yes,  he  is 
right,  Young  Lochinvar.  You  have  about  filled  up 
the  measure  of  our  instruction  on  the  plains,  the  cat- 
tle business  and  broncho  riding.  We're  not  capable 
of  much  more.  As  I  see  it,  we've  got  to  get  this 
thing  checked  in  you,  or  you'll  have  to  turn  loose 
your  job  here,  go  back  to  West  Texas,  and  attend  to 
the  neglected  matter  of  breaking  your  neck." 

The  president  was  passing  us  at  the  moment, 
going  toward  his  private  room,  and  stopped  to  listen 
to  the  discussion,  giving  me,  unobserved,  a  tender 
glance  and  a  fleeting  hand  pressure.  To  the  amaze- 
ment and  mystification  of  the  others,  he  warmly 
seconded  the  suggestion  that  I  go  home  to  Texas, 
urging  that  I  needed  a  vacation. 

No  one  knew  but  Miss  Salem,  who  ever  kept  her 
own  counsel,  how  the  Middle  West  was  being  writ- 
ten, and  none  guessed,  save  probably  Bushrod  Floyd, 
that  there  was  more  than  the  usual  business  and 
literary  interest  between  Frank  and  me. 

Now,  when  the  president  had  left  us,  Mr.  DeWitt 
suggested, 


"  A  Hawk  —  A  Horse  —  or  A  Husband  "   233 

"  Try  a  substitute.  Go  up  to  the  region  of  the 
riding  academies,  and  sample  some  of  them;  see 
some  real  riding.  You  might  undertake  a  round  or 
two  yourself  —  if  you  have  the  nerve  —  we'll  foot 
the  bill,  if  you  make  some  good  copy  out  of  it. 
What  do  you  say  ?  " 

The  thought  that  I  was  due  at  the  studio  to  work 
on  That  Book,  which  had  just  come  to  a  portentously 
stupid  portion  —  like  a  heavy,  dull,  sodden  pudding 
bestuck  with  bitter,  dark  plums  of  statistics  —  that 
I  was  to  go  and  write,  I  pray  you  recollect,  while 
Frank  would  not  be  there  —  was  even  then  eating 
into  my  heart.  And  — 

"  You  may  come  with  me,"  supplemented  Gene- 
vieve,  "  I  am  going  up  there  this  afternoon.  I  can 
give  you  some  points." 

"On— ?"  I  said. 

"  On  riding,"  she  retorted,  with  unexpected  spirit, 
"  though  I  am  going  to  get  a  number  of  personal 
items.  I  have  ridden  —  since  I  was  six  years  old  — 
until  I  came  to  America." 

As  I  hesitated,  eyeing  her,  I  heard  Mr.  Corcoran 
chuckle ;  and  Mr.  DeWitt  muttered  to  him,  "  Sick 
'em !  It'll  be  interesting.  Texas  plains  against  Eng- 
lish 'cross  country.  I'll  bet  on  the  Texas  girl." 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  back  Albion,"  debated  the 
shameless  Mr.  Corcoran.  "  She  doesn't  make  so 
much  noise,  but  she's  a  stayer,  Miss  Bucks  is." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  go,  Miss  Bucks,"  I  said, 
cordially,  "  are  you  quite  ready?  Then,  if  you  like, 
let's  go  right  along."  And  I  followed  her  out,  turn- 
ing back  at  the  door  to  include  the  two  men  in  one 
glance  of  comprehensive  scorn. 

Outside  we  met  Jim  Baxter  coming  in,  he  an- 


234         «$»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

nounced,  to  loaf  with  us  a  little  while,  if  he  should 
be  allowed.    Jim  —  because,  I  suppose,  he  is  so  big 
and  simple,  so  whole  and  harmonious  a  creature  - 
is  at  once  understood,  liked,  and  desired  by  the  most 
widely  different  people. 

I  have  never  seen  Frank  more  sweetly  and  pleas- 
ingly himself  than  he  always  was  with  Jim.  Bush- 
rod  openly  loved  the  tall  Texan ;  Mr.  DeWitt  showed 
him  a  half-humourous  affection;  while  the  whole 
Corcoran  household  and  the  orthodox,  conventional, 
rigidly-limited  Miss  Bucks  all  delighted  in  him. 

So  now  Genevieve  and  I  gladly  annexed  Jim,  and 
the  three  of  us  went  up  to  one  of  the  big  fashionable 
riding  academies  near  the  park. 

We  beheld  horsemanship  as  she  is  taught,  Gene- 
vieve with  looks  of  respectful  approval,  we  Texans 
with  alien,  derisive,  prejudiced  eyes,  of  course. 

"Isn't  it  funny?"  I  demanded  of  Jim. 

"  It  is  the  best  of  exercise,"  interfered  Miss  Bucks, 
jealously. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  assented  (as  Jim  remained  silent), 
"  plodding  around  this  ring  is  no  doubt  good  exer- 
cise. It  costs  a  young  fortune,  and  ought  to  be  good 
for  something.  But  if  you've  learned  to  ride  as  you 
did  to  talk  or  walk,  if  you've  loped  across  the  plains, 
with  neither  hill,  hollow,  nor  your  pony's  humour 
to  interfere  with  your  galloping  from  dawn  to  dark, 
where  the  sky  was  the  only  boundary  the  eye  could 
reach,  as  it  closed  over  your  vast  brown-green  floor 
like  an  inverted  bowl  —  why,  this  seems  pretty 
tame." 

"  But  do  you  not  see,"  protested  Miss  Bucks, 
"  that  these  people  are  doing,  and  doing  well,  some- 


"  A  Hawk  —  A  Horse  —  or  A  Husband  "    23 5 

thing  much  more  difficult  than  that  common  canter- 
ing 'cross  country,  of  which  you  are  talking?" 

"  Yes,  I  see  it,"  I  answered.  "  I  am  perfectly 
aware  that  I  could  not,  on  a  little  flat  saddle  and 
with  short  stirrups,  ride  a  spirited  horse  at  a  rough 
trot,  without  labour  and  practice.  But  I  cannot 
imagine  why  anybody  should  wish  to  do  it." 

"  For  the  exercise  —  it  exercises  every  muscle  in 
the  human  body,"  pronounced  Miss  Bucks  solemnly 
—  almost  religiously. 

"  Oh,  that !  "  I  cried  in  disgust.  "If  that  is  all, 
I'd  rather  buy  one  of  these  household  whing-whangs 
with  weights  and  handles,  and  pull  and  haul  it  by  a 
diagram,  till  I  had  got  the  '  exercise  '  needed.  Then 
I  suppose  I  might  be  permitted  to  get  on  a  smooth- 
gaited  horse,  and  ride  him  as  I  pleased,  simply  for 
fun." 

"  Fun,"  echoed  Miss  Bucks,  with  a  strange  falling 
inflection. 

"  Oh,  Jim !  "  I  cried,  "  do  you  know  what  vision 
that  smug  riding-master,  with  his  English  whiskers 
and  his  English  top-boots,  brings  up  to  me?  " 

"  Well,  no,"  hesitated  Jim,  eyeing  the  man.  "  He 
don't  remind  me  of  anything  I  ever  saw  before." 

"  Why,  he  brings  up  to  my  mind  your  Baldy,"  I 
exclaimed. 

Baldy  was  a  glass-eyed,  dish-faced  pinto,  invet- 
erately  broncho,  for  whom  the  Devil  River  region 
was  ever  too  small  when  he  got  on  a  rampage,  and 
whose  digestion  troubled  him  if  he  did  not  rampage 
at  least  once  a  week. 

:<  This  chap  and  Baldy  would  make  a  good  pair  to 
draw  to,  wouldn't  they  ?  "  agreed  Jim. 

"  Fancy,"  I  said,  "  the  surprise  of  this  immaculate 


236         «$»         The  Last  Word  <& 

and  consummate  individual  on  Baldy's  back,  when 
he  should  feel  Baldy's  spine  arching  like  that  of  a 
high-strung  cat  upon  the  approach  of  a  dog.  Think 
of  his  well-bred  horror  when  the  saddle  should  sud- 
denly shoot  up  some  six  feet,  and  come  down  on  four 
legs  as  rigid  as  iron,  with  a  sickening  plunk !  What 
disapprobation  he  would  feel  for  Baldy's  trick  of 
standing  on  his  hind  legs  and  playing  the  '  Carnival 
of  Venice,'  with  all  the  runs,  variations,  and  heavy 
bass  on  an  imaginary  piano  ten  feet  long,  with  his 
fore  feet;  or  his  ballet-girl  accomplishment  of  hop- 
ping clear  off  the  ground,  reversing  himself  in  mid- 
air and  coming  down  with  his  head  where  his  tail 
had  been,  and  vice  versa." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Jim,  mildly,  "  Baldy's  a  mean 
horse.  Jake  Shorter's  riding  him  this  year,  an'  him 
an'  Baldy'd  been  having  it  up  and  down  the  last 
time  I  saw  'em  together.  Yes  —  up  and  down  it 
was.  But  Jake  didn't  make  any  complaint.  He 
just  remarked,  '  I've  seed  buckin'  ponies,  and  as  a 
broncho  buster  I've  rode  buckin'  ponies;  but  that 
there  glass-eyed,  pole-necked,  spotted-skinned  hye- 
ner's  got  more  kinds  of  buck'n  a  greaser's  got  kinds 
o'  lies!'" 

"  Well,"  I  said,  laughing,  "  when  this  sawdust 
knight  is  inducted  into  the  approved  method  of  riding 
a  bucking  broncho,  may  I  be  there  to  see !  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  spoke  up  Genevieve,  with  some  heat, 
"  and  I,  too.  I  dare  say  you  would  find  it  excellent 
sport ;  for  I  don't  doubt  he  can  do  it  perfectly !  " 

I  laughed  again,  incredulously  and  unpleasantly, 
and  the  red  flamed  up  under  Genevieve's  transparent 
skin. 


"  A  Hawk  —  A  Horse  —  or  A  Husband  "    237 

Jim's  voice  fell  upon  the  rising  storm,  and 
quenched  it. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  agreed,  heartily,  with  his  large, 
placid  toleration ;  "  I  expect  he  could  do  it  all  right. 
We  don't  admire  this  sort  of  thing,  Miss  Carry," 
indicating  the  mass  of  riders  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand,  "  but  it  isn't  safe  to  suppose  that  a  fellow  who 
rides  that  way  can't  do  anything  else." 

Miss  Bucks  gave  him  a  grateful  glance,  and  leav- 
ing them  to  harmonise,  I  turned  to  look  at  the 
riding,  when  coming  toward  me  from  the  entrance 
door  I  saw  the  face  and  form  that  were  never  far 
from  my  thoughts.  Where  was  there  ever  any  one 
like  him  ?  so  masterful,  so  compelling,  so  irresistibly 
lovable,  my  heart's  tormentor  and  darling,  its  grief 
and  delight. 

He  had  come  hoping  to  catch  us,  he  said;  he 
wanted  some  rough  sketches  of  horses  and  riders. 
Miss  Bucks  and  I  both  went  to  the  dressing-rooms 
and  put  on  habits,  and  Frank  made  several  rapid 
sketches,  vigorous,  masterly  things,  of  us  and  Jim 
mounted  and  variously  grouped.  His  work  was 
admirable.  I  looked  at  it  and  was  filled  with  satis- 
faction. I  could  indeed  feel  proud  of  him  as  an 
artist ;  and  as  he  talked  to  the  others,  and  I  observed 
the  distinctive  charm  of  the  man,  as  he  helped  me 
on  and  off  my  horse,  his  eyes  dwelling  tenderly  upon 
me,  his  touch  caressing  me,  his  whispered  word  of 
admiration  and  approval  in  my  ear,  I  told  myself 
that  he  was  the  flower  of  gentlemen  as  well,  and  the 
prince  of  lovers. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 
The   Highest   Places 

"  Wisdom  crieth  upon  the  highest  places  of  the  city." 

"  BUT,  Mr.  DeWitt,"  I  demurred,  "  do  you  think 
it  will  make  a  story  at  all?  It  seems  to  me  there's 
very  little  in  it." 

"  Very  little  in  what  ?  In  the  Island  matter,  or 
in  that  skull  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  mean  that  —  "I  began.  "  And  then 
I  can't  always  be  —  " 

Mr.  DeWitt  looked  at  his  watch,  and  announced, 
"  My  dear  Wild  West,  I  think  I  have  twenty  minutes 
till  those  proofs  come  in  —  which  may  be  profitably 
devoted  to  your  education." 

Here,  I  know,  he  detected  some  restless  motion  on 
my  part,  and  a  threatening  light  in  my  free-born 
Texas  eye,  for  he  exclaimed,  somewhat  hastily, 
"  Hold  there !  I'll  give  it  to  you  easy,  in  the  form 
of  a  story.  Come  now,  I'm  not  often  purely  benevo- 
lent; but  this  is  intended  wholly  for  your  good. 
You  want  to  be  educated  out  of  a  sort  of  wooden- 
headed  literalness  to  which  you  are  so  wedded  —  of 
which  you  are  so  respectful.  You  simply  must  get 
rid  of  that  idea  that  a  story  will  come  to  you  whole. 
You'll  find  your  very  best  ones  are  one-third  outside 
stuff  and  two-thirds  from  yourself." 

238 


«$»  The  Highest  Places       *9»       239 

"  Well,  go  on  with  your  instructive  talk,"  I  said, 
sullenly.  "  Does  it  begin  '  Once  upon  a  time/  or  '  A 
was  a  —  ?  ' 

Mr.  DeWitt  honoured  this  speech  as  it  deserved, 
and  proceeded.  The  story  he  told  me  was  that  of 
a  lank  and  somewhat  seedy  provincial  contributor 
who  came  to  New  York,  and,  being  curtly  advised 
by  a  savage,  overworked  editor  to  go  to  the  top 
of  old  Trinity  and  write  an  article  about  what  he 
saw,  accepted  the  satiric  suggestion  literally,  went, 
looked,  was  inspired,  and  wrote  an  article  which 
"  took  the  town." 

My  editor  wound  up  impressively,  "  So  this  is 
what  happened  to  the  man  who  not  only  could  make 
his  story  out  of  himself,  but  who  knew  it.  I  now 
dismiss  you,  with  my  blessing,  to  New  York  in 
general,  and  yourself  generally,  particularly,  and  all 
the  time.  Go  forth  —  into  yourself  —  my  dear 
young  literary  and  journalistic  postulant,  and  return 
bringing  in  your  sheaves." 

Words  failed  my  sulky  resentment.  "  Huh !  "  I 
announced,  and  walked  slowly  and  truculently  out, 
Mr.  DeWitt's  glinting  eye  fixed  steadily  on  me  to  the 
last,  so  that  on  my  way  to  the  door,  I  only  dared  push 
distressfully  against  his  overcoat  which  lay  across 
a  desk,  upset  a  photograph  as  I  swept  up  my  belong- 
ings, and  step  gingerly  on  Texas,  whose  yelps,  along 
with  Mr.  DeWitt's  steely  glance,  pursued  me  all  the 
way  down  the  eleven  stories  and  out  onto  the  street. 

Frank  went  down  in  the  elevator  with  me.  "  I 
heard  DeWitt  administering  that  old  story  of  his 
about  the  Trinity  steeple  fellow,  Cara.  Surely  you 
wouldn't  call  that  stuff  advice,  or  attempt  to  take 


240         «$»         The  Last  Word  ^» 

it  literally.  Can  you  come  on  up  to  the  studio?  I 
have  a  plan  at  last  for  that  tenth  chapter." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Frank,"  I  answered,  untruthfully, 
"  but  I  must  get  up  my  week's  story."  And  he  left 
me  at  the  corner,  evidently  offended. 

When  he  .was  gone,  the  effect  of  Mr.  DeWitt's 
recital  returned  upon  me.  My  anger  evaporated 
as  my  enthusiasm  rose.  I  said  to  myself,  "  Beshrew 
me,  but  I  also  will  climb  up  on  a  high  place  and  look 
down."  (Alas!  the  wooden-headed  literalness  so 
perceivingly  touched  upon  by  Mr.  DeWitt  was  al- 
ready displaying  itself. )  "I  will  be  struck  with  the 
vastness  of  the  human  swarm  beneath  me,  saddened 
by  the  contemplation  of  its  mournful  destiny,  amused 
at  its  vapid  follies  and  mole-like  blindness.  I  will 
be  uplifted,  pitying,  pathetic,  cynical,  humourous.  I 
will  ponder,  philosophise,  scintillate.  And  I,  even 
I,  will  also  take  the  town !  " 

Having  settled  that  it  was  a  deed  to  be  done,  and 
there  being,  with  me,  only  one  suitable  time  to  do 
any  approved  thing,  —  the  present  instant,  —  I  se- 
lected as  my  point  of  operations  a  sky-scraper  far 
above  the  tip  of  Trinity's  spire,  and  started  out  from 
the  house  after  lunch  blithe  and  hopeful,  armed  with 
a  large  red  note-book,  a  freshly  sharpened  pencil,  a 
batch  of  poetical  quotations  which  I  knew  should 
occur  to  me  at  certain  points  in  my  observations,  and 
an  unshaken  confidence  in  my  ability  to  feel  as  many 
different  ways  in  a  given  time  as  anybody. 

I  journeyed  with  common  people  up  to  the  seven- 
teenth floor,  in  an  elevator  that  went  so  fast  it  swept 
out  of  me  before  we  reached  the  tenth  story  every 
sensation  but  a  big,  pale  gray  astonishment,  leaving 
my  mind  in  a  charmingly  blank  condition  to  receive 


«$»  The  Highest  Places       «^       241 

any  impressions  which  I  felt  the  view  ought  to  make 
upon  me.  From  the  seventeenth  floor,  where  the 
elevator  abandoned  me,  I  climbed  up  and  up  on 
foot,  till  I  began  to  fear  that  some  thoughtless 
person  had,  in  cruel  jest,  purposely  removed  and 
secreted  the  end  of  the  stairway. 

These  fears  were  unfounded,  for  I  presently 
crawled  up  the  last  little  ladderway,  through  a  large 
rat-hole,  and  out  into  the  air.  I  stepped  up  on  to  the 
narrow  circular  platform,  and,  poking  my  nose 
incautiously  over  the  stone  coping,  looked  directly 
down.  Then  I  shut  my  eyes  and  jerked  my  head 
back  exactly  in  the  maner  of  a  turtle.  The  dome 
rocked  to  its  foundation.  A  vague  rushing  filled 
my  ears,  and  inward  trembling  possessed  me.  I 
wondered  if  anybody  of  just  my  weight  had  ever 
been  up  there  before,  and  hastily  laid  down  my  note- 
book by  way  of  throwing  out  ballast. 

This  was  not  a  promising  start,  but  I  gathered 
myself  together  and  cautiously  tried  again.  I 
avoided  looking  directly  down,  and  confined  my 
attention  to  the  more  remote  streets,  where  the  tiny 
horse  and  elevated  cars  moved  along  like  minute 
and  ingenious  mechanical  toys ;  where  the  continual 
streams  of  people,  meeting,  passing,  hurrying  to  and 
fro,  made  no  impression  of  individualities  upon  the 
mind.  I  was  about  to  be  struck  with  the  multitudi- 
nous human  life  of  the  great  city,  and  the  first  quo- 
tation was  just  going  to  occur  to  me,  when  my  medi- 
tations were  interrupted  by  a  deep  educational  voice 
behind  me,  issuing  a  mandate  to  some  one  below 
deck. 

I  glanced  hastily  around  and  saw,  ascending 
through  the  rat-hole,  a  long  drab  visage  surmounted 


242         «*>         The  Last  Word  «$» 

by  a  forbidding  black  bonnet.  I  guessed  but  too 
truly,  from  the  sounds  that  now  came  up  the  flume, 
that  she  was  a  preceptress  from  some  outlying  semi- 
nary, convoying  a  class  of  girls  on  a  sightseeing 
tour,  and  bent  on  dosing  them  with  ingeniously  in- 
correct information. 

Now,  could  anything  worse  have  befallen! 

They  were  as  lively  as  so  many  young  crows ;  and 
as  the  preceptress  lectured  upon  the  surrounding 
objects  they  soon  exhausted  their  little  stock  of 
adjectives. 

The  Brooklyn  Bridge,  I  learned,  was  "  sweet,"  the 
various  tall  buildings  around  "  awfully  nice,"  the 
shipping,  the  engirdling  arms  of  the  North  and 
East  Rivers,  "  too  cunning  for  anything;  "  and  the 
way  Madame  explained  everything  was  "  just 
grand."  They  scuffled  so  recklessly  that  my  heart 
was  kept  in  my  mouth.  By  the  time  they  went 
down,  all  my  thoughts  on  "  No.  I  —  uplifted  "  were 
in  a  state  of  chaos.  I  collected  my  faculties  with  an 
effort,  and  went  determinedly  on  to  the  second  stage, 
the  sad,  reflective,  philosophical  one,  the  quotation 
for  which  was, 

"  We  scheme  and  plan,  the  cry  of  love 
Mounts  upward  from  the  seething  city." 

The  very  thought  of  "  the  moonlit  mount,  where 
silence  sits  to  listen  to  the  stars,"  which  I  had  igno- 
rantly  hoped  to  work  in  somewhere,  made  me  weary. 

I  had  no  more  than  got  to  the  "  seething  city,"  and 
into  a  dusky,  remote,  pensive  frame  of  mind,  when 
with  a  volley  of  little  soft  exclamations,  and  much 
helping  of  Mamie  and  Lula  and  Maudie,  by  George 


«$»  The  Highest  Places       «$»       243 

and  Charlie  and  Arthur,  not  one  pair,  but  a  whole 
platoon  of  honeymooners  invaded  me.  Of  all  the 
honeymooners  I  ever  saw,  these  were  the  most 
virulent  and  confluent,  the  most  flagrant  and  aban- 
doned. So  far  from  trying  to  conceal  their  besotted 
condition,  they  only  feared  lest  one  might  fail  to 
observe  it,  and  put  themselves  to  continual  trouble 
to  make  it  plain  to  one.  George  held  Mamie,  who 
was  too  venturesome ;  and  Lula  clasped  Charlie,  who 
was  wildly  reckless.  They  all  chewed  gum  with  an 
ardour  and  devotion  I  have  never  seen  equalled. 

But  I  would  fain  draw  the  veil  of  silence  over  the 
sufferings  they  inflicted  upon  me,  and  only  say  that 
they  finally  left  me;  they  took  their  beaks  from  out 
my  heart,  and  took  their  forms  from  off  my  door. 

I  had  not  come  to  New  York  to  succeed  in  journal- 
ism only  to  be  balked  by  an  even  half-dozen  of 
honeymooners  —  not  I.  So  I  thrust  far  from  me  the 
very  remembrance  of  them,  and  schemed  out  what  it 
seemed  to  me  ought  to  make  a  pretty  fair  article  of 
a  bitter,  pessimistic  sort,  if  not  the  dazzling  prose 
poem  I  had  expected  to  write.  I  had  opened  my 
note-book  upon  the  stone  coping,  when  a  voice 
behind  me,  the  sweetest  voice  in  all  the  world,  but 
wholly  unwelcome  there  and  then,  said,  softly, 
"  Carita." 

I  turned  to  find  Frank  looking  quite  as  fond  as 
any  of  those  bridegrooms.  I  was  enraged.  I  was 
reduced  to  the  last  drop  of  patience.  It  was  plain  he 
thought  a  bit  of  sentiment  some  hundreds  of  feet 
above  the  rest  of  the  world  would  be  rather  nice.  Of 
course  he  did,  and  I  remembered  with  inward  quail- 
ing the  grins  of  those  young  Benedicts  just  departed. 

I  rose  abruptly.    "  I'm  just  going  down,  Frank," 


244         +         The  Last  Word  «£» 

I  said.  And  my  note-book  must  have  taken  the  hint, 
for  it  flopped  off  the  edge  of  the  coping  like  a  big 
awkward  bird,  and  went  flapping  down  to  the  street. 

"  Don't  hurry  away,"  Frank  urged.  "  I  never 
have  a  moment  alone  with  you  that  isn't  spoiled  by 
work.  Let  us  sit  and  talk  a  little  while." 

The  work  at  the  studio  was  work,  you  see.  This 
matter,  which  was  only  a  commission  from  Mr.  De- 
Witt,  and  concerned  my  weekly  column  whereby  I 
earned  my  bread,  was  plainly  regarded  as  a  bit  of 
child's  play,  to  be  pushed  aside  disrespectfully.  It 
was  not  a  propitious  beginning. 

"  Cara,"  Frank  went  on,  as  we  sat  on  the  big 
ledge  and  looked  down  at  the  city,  "  I  want  you 
to  let  me  announce  our  engagement  —  privately  — 
to  a  few  friends  only,"  as  he  saw  instant  protest  in 
my  face. 

"  Wait  a  little.  It  —  it's  all  so  new  now.  We 
scarcely  know  yet  —  oh,  let's  wait  awhile,"  I 
pleaded,  incoherently. 

"  I  want  the  privilege  of  calling  upon  you  often, 
dear.  We  want  to  go  out  together,  to  begin  to 
belong  to  each  other.  I  should  like  to  tell  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran," urged  Frank,  wistfully. 

At  first,  the  prospect  of  frequent  calls  from  Frank, 
the  association  of  our  leisure,  was  alluring.  Then 
I  thought  of  our  young  lovers,  and  the  vision  which 
came  before  me  of  them  upon  one  side  of  the  tiny 
parlour,  hanging  over  their  lexicons  and  exchanging 
glances  which  were  in  themselves  dictionaries  of 
love;  with  Frank  and  myself  upon  the  other  side, 
oblivious  of  them,  and  gazing  in  each  other's  eyes, 
was  so  absurd  that  I  laughed  out. 

This  sounded  unkind,  and  I  was  obliged  to  ex- 


«$»  The  Highest  Places       «^       245 

plain  the  cause  of  my  mirth.  I  went  on  from 
Corydon  and  Phyllis  to  speak  of  the  sending  of 
blissful  lovers  which  had  so  harassed  me  a  month 
before,  and  concluded  by  telling  him  of  my  recent 
honeymooners. 

"  There  comes  a  pair  of  them  now !  "  I  exclaimed, 
as  a  blonde  head  appeared  in  the  stair  opening.  "  I 
can  always  tell  them  by  the  way  they  brush  their 
hair." 

The  man  in  the  stairway  came  swiftly  up  the 
last  steps.  He  had  the  quick,  light  foot  character- 
istic of  some  heavy  people.  His  hat  was  in  his 
hand,  and  the  fair  curls  were  held  in  damp  rings 
upon  his  forehead  by  perspiration.  He  emerged, 
breathing  a  little  quick  and  smiling.  It  was  Bushrod 
Floyd.  "  I  was  down-stairs  seeing  about  some  cuts, 
and  the  elevator  man  told  me  you  were  up  here,  so 
I  came  —  " 

He  caught  sight  of  Frank  behind  me,  paused, 
those  quick-expanding  pupils  made  his  blue  eyes  sud- 
denly black,  and  the  three  of  us,  perhaps  the  most 
uncomfortable  trio  at  that  altitude  in  New  York, 
stared  at  each  other  for  one  miserable  moment. 

Then  I  found  voice  to  say,  "  I  was  just  going 
down  when  you  came." 

"  Miss  West  complains  of  interruptions,"  began 
Frank,  in  a  kindly,  natural  tone.  "  She  says  that  all 
the  world  is  in  a  conspiracy  against  this  one  article 
she  is  trying  to  write.  Suppose  we  go  down,  Bush, 
and  leave  her  to  such  solitude  as  she  can  find." 

But  I  protested,  and  the  three  of  us  went  down 
together,  recovered  my  note-book,  and  separated 
at  the  step  of  my  car. 

It  was  an  overwhelming  desire  for  an  appreciative 


246         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

audience,  and  the  fact  that  I  shrank  from  mention- 
ing the  occurrence  again  to  Bushrod  Floyd,  and 
was  thus  denied  his  sympathy  —  the  only  available 
—  which  blinded  my  eagle  intellect,  led  captive 
my  fine  judgment,  and  betrayed  me  into  the  idiot 
weakness  of  telling  this  thing  (with  some  reasonable 
reservations)  at  the  office  —  yes,  to  Mr.  DeWitt,  the 
light  scoffer,  himself. 

He  received  my  tragic  recital  so  quietly,  and  with 
such  unusual  absence  of  wounding  comment  and 
humourous  interpolation,  that  I  fatuously  deemed 
him  touched  for  once.  When  I  had  gotten  so  far, 
and  paused,  he  said: 

"  Proceed.  I  perish  to  know  what  you  did  when 
these  predatory  honeymooners  left." 

"  Well,"  I  returned,  "  you  know  yourself  that  if 
there  is  any  redeeming  feature  in  a  calamity  it  is 
my  cheerful  way  to  find  it  out ;  so,  as  the  last  snigger 
died  away  down  the  rat-hole,  and  I  was  alone  again, 
I  said  to  myself,  '  Number  one  and  Number  two  are 
lost.  There  is  not  a  dust  of  benevolence  left  in  me; 
my  natural  milk  of  human  kindness  is  turned  to 
Dutch  cheese.  If  all  those  people  I  see  running 
around  down  there  have  no  more  sense  than  these 
samples  they  pass  up  to  me  through  the  flume,  I 
want  them  to  have  corns  and  be  disappointed  in  love. 
They  deserve  it.  It  will  be  salutary  for  them.  And 
if  they  are  not  sad  or  in  pain,  they  will  be  able  to 
devote  all  their  time  and  energies  to  the  making  of 
others  so.' ' 

Mr.  DeWitt  gave  me  a  sort  of  reluctantly  approv- 
ing grin.  "  You  are  brilliantly  right,"  he  remarked. 
"  You  seem  to  be  distinctly  coming  out." 

I  continued,  encouraged :    "  I  could  not,  to  save 


«f»  The  Highest  Places       «$»       247 

my  life,  be  pathetic  over  the  misfortunes  of  a  lot  of 
creatures  who  have  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  chase 
a  person  around,  interrupt  him  in  the  pursuit  of  his 
legitimate  avocation,  and  refuse  him  a  moment  to 
reflect  or  emote  properly.  I  said  to  myself  that  all 
was  not  lost,  however.  Number  one  and  Number 
two  were  impossible,  but  there  was  yet  Number 
three.  And  what  a  frame  of  mind  I  was  in  to  be 
cynical!  I  embraced  the  idea  of  being  brilliant, 
scornful,  withering!  I  decided  to  set  going  the 
ever-ready,  cruel  laughter  of  the  world,  which  never 
sees  —  the  great  ostrich  —  that  it  is  laughing  at 
itself." 

"  Yes,  quite  so  —  ought  to  be  good  stuff  —  why 
are  you  so  gloomy  and  savage  about  it?  Let's  see 
it,"  said  Mr.  DeWitt. 

"  See  it  ?  There  isn't  any,"  I  responded,  miser- 
ably. "  I  stretched  out  my  hand  for  my  note-book, 
which  had  been  kicked  by  the  foot  of  the  last  de- 
scending bride  onto  the  giddy  edge  of  the  coping.  It 
slid  coquettishly  away  from  me.  I  clutched  for  it. 
It  spread  its  red  wings  abroad,  fluttered  its  white 
leaves,  and  sailed  down  toward  the  pavement  below, 
carrying  its  disgracefully  innocent  contents." 

"  '  Disgracefully  innocent,'  is  an  ill  phrase,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  DeWitt,  "  a  vile  phrase." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  I  returned,  doggedly,  "  but  it  fits 
the  case.  There  were  no  '  Descriptive  bits ; '  there 
wasn't  any  '  Eloquence,'  any  '  Pathos/  any  '  Mellow 
Humour '  or  '  Sparkling  Wit,'  —  only  a  handful  of 
blank  leaves  where  these  all  should  have  been !  This 
was  negatively  bad ;  but  in  the  back  of  the  book  was 
the  disgraceful  innocence  —  a  few  recipes  for  freckle 
lotions,  bandoline,  tea  biscuits  —  " 


248         «$•         The  Last  Word  *^ 

Mr.  DeWitt  roared  joyously  and  unaffectedly. 

"  Oh,  laugh  by  all  means,"  I  almost  sobbed;  "  it's 
so  healthful,  you  know." 

Mr.  DeWitt  compassionately  straightened  out  his 
face. 

"  I  recovered  it  afterward,"  I  went  on.  "  That 
building  is  a  miserable  failure,  because  the  observa- 
tory —  above  the  tip-top  point  of  old  Trinity  spire 
—  hasn't  got  any  really  good  place  to  have  emotions 
in;  no  place  where  you  can  be  sure  that  the  feelings 
you  know  you  ought  to  have  will  not  get  all  mixed 
up  and  confused  with  those  feelings  thrust  upon  you 
by  trivial  and  irritating  interruptions." 

Mr.  DeWitt  roared  again,  enjoyingly,  but  plainly 
more  at  his  own  thought  than  at  anything  I  was 
saying. 

"  Talk  about  '  wooden-headed  literalness  ' !  "  he 
cried,  "  but  my  dear  Lochinvar,  this  breaks  even 
your  record.  Where  on  earth  was  your  individual- 
ity? your  originality?  To  go  up  on  a  high  place! 
You  might  at  least  have  gone  and  fallen  down  a 
deep  place  —  or  —  or  —  " 

"  Mr.  DeWitt,"  I  interrupted,  with  bitterness, 
"  writing  things  is  evidently  not  my  vocation ;  you 
were  right  beyond  all  doubt  as  to  the  folly  of  trans- 
planting little  local  fledgling  celebrities,  and  Mr. 
Randolph  was  all  wrong.  Here  is  Thursday's  copy. 
I  shall  not  take  the  town  with  this  story,  but  when 
I  consider  the  sort  of  people  it  seemed  to  be  rilled 
with,  I  no  longer  think  I  want  it." 

And  I  went  out,  resolutely  gloomy  and  depressed, 
followed  by  Mr.  DeWitt's  good-humoured  rally- 
ings  and  laughter. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

"Underneath   the   Bough" 

"  Wherefore  within  the  city  fire  illumined 
Are  not  these  punished,  if  God's  wrath  be  on  them ; 
And  if  it  be  not,  wherefore  in  such  guise 
Are  they  condemned  ?  " 

THE  first  ardour  of  summer  had  dropped  upon  us 
like  a  steaming  blanket. 

It  was  suddenly  burning  hot  one  morning.  At 
lunch  time  came  a  grand  old,  insolent,  bellowing 
storm,  blew  the  dust  rudely,  brutally;  thundered, 
pelted  the  just  and  the  unjust  with  big,  hard, 
low-bred  rain,  and  then  for  a  time  it  was  cool,  and 
life  (which  many  people  had  been  seriously  debat- 
ing abandoning)  again  became  feasible.  But  just 
as  I  was  beginning  to  lift  my  drooping  head  a  bit, 
it  returned  upon  us  hotter  than  before,  and  grinning 
broadly  as  though  it  said,  "  Hah !  fooled  you  that 
time!" 

Hot  weather  is  a  great  developer  of  character. 
When  the  boiling  heats  come  on,  things  in  various 
persons'  dispositions  transpire,  to  your  great  sur- 
prise and  edification  —  and  theirs. 

I  drooped  into  the  office  that  glowing  afternoon, 
laid  a  moist  wad  of  copy  on  Mr.  De Witt's  desk,  and 

perspired  some  such  reflection  as  the  above. 

249 


250        «f»         The  Last  Word  <9> 

My  editor,  crisp  and  fresh  as  usual,  looked  up, 
with  his  little  tolerant  smile. 

"  Yes,  that  seems  to  be  true,  my  dear  South- 
west," he  agreed.  "  I  myself  have  observed  that 
when  the  mercury  begins  to  go  up  and  up,  and  your 
spirits,  your  collar  and  your  energy  down  and  down, 
when  the  zest  of  life  evaporates,  when  the  heat  palpi- 
tates off  buildings  and  sidewalks,  when  the  day  is 
a  sore  burden,  and  night  a  weariness  void  of  repose, 
then  the  '  savageness  in  unreclaimed  blood '  breaks 
out,"  and  he  smiled  again,  and  looked  a  little  cooler. 

It  was  so  evident  that  he  did  not  include  himself 
in  these  observations,  that  I  interjected, 

"  —  If  anybody  had  any  savageness  —  or  any 
blood,  even !  But  you  —  " 

"  Among  the  tenements  on  the  East  Side,"  pur- 
sued Mr.  DeWitt,  smoothly,  "  this  turbulence  mani- 
fests itself  in  street  brawls,  free  fights,  and  connubial 
lammings.  Among  gentler  and  more  enlightened 
people,  like  ourselves,  it  is  quite  commonly  expressed 
in  the  scarcely  less  baleful  picnic." 

"  Picnic !  "  I  echoed.  "  Why  do  you  mention  a 
picnic?  " 

"  I  will  (if  permitted)  tell  you  presently,  my  dear 
Wild  West,"  returned  he.  "  As  I  was  observing, 
we  suffer,  we  perspire,  we  become  exasperated  and 
irritable  beyond  measure;  we  are  really  homicidal; 
we  long  to  massacre  and  destroy.  But  as  all  the 
traditions  of  our  class  are  against  the  gratification 
of  such  impulses,  as  our  training  and  habits  debar 
us  from  the  more  generous  and  direct  relief  of  cut- 
ting throats  and  breaking  heads,  we  simply  explode 
into  a  picnic.  The  picnic  virus  is  now  seething  in 


«S»        "Underneath  the  Bough"     «$»     251 

Mr.  Baxter's  veins.  He  was  in  here  nearly  an  hour, 
endeavouring  to  infect  me." 

"  Poor  Jim !  "  said  I.  "  Out  on  his  ranch,  the 
winds  sweep  up  from  the  gulf,  over  miles  and  miles 
of  open  prairie.  His  front  yard  would  make  a  New 
York  county." 

"  Where  have  I  heard  something  like  that  be- 
fore?" murmured  Mr.  DeWitt. 

"  Poor  Jim!  "  I  repeated  (adding,  mentally,  "  and 
poor  me  ").  "  Pent  among  brick  and  mortar,  and 
cut  off  from  all  outdoor  life!  I've  been  noticing 
ever  since  spring  opened  that  he  was  as  nervous  and 
restive  as  a  mustang  tied  to  a  mesquite  in  a  bare 
place,  watching  the  rest  of  the  bunch  out  in  the  high 
grass." 

"  It  has  appeared  somewhat  as  you  say  to  me," 
concurred  Mr.  DeWitt,  "  though  I  fear  I  should 
never  have  been  able  to  express  it  so  felicitously. 
Well,  he  pleaded  most  fondly  the  charms  and  bene- 
fits of  a  picnic;  and  as  it  is  hot,  and  a  Sunday  pic- 
nic is  a  madly  vulgar  contrivance,  and  our  evil  star 
was  unquestionably  in  the  ascendant,  we  listened  to 
the  voice  of  his  charming  —  Miss  Bucks  and  myself 
—  and  we  fell.  That  is,  we  fell  in  with  this  fell 
picnic  scheme —  Ugh!  how  criminally  vulgar. 
That  big  Texas  fellow  is  a  hypnotist.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  he  could  persuade  me  to  wheel  a  baby- 
carriage  up  Broadway." 

Mr.  Corcoran  came  over  from  his  desk  and  im- 
parted to  me  that  he  and  Jim  were  to  secure  the 
means  of  transportation,  for  Jim  scorned  all  trains, 
cars,  boats,  and  other  public  conveyances,  and  said 
a  picnic  was  no  picnic  unless  you  had  your  own  rig 
and  a  team  no  other  fellow  could  drive  around. 


252        -^        The  Last  Word  «$» 

Mrs.  Corcoran  and  I  were  to  accumulate  the  lunch. 
Miss  Bucks  and  Mr.  DeWitt  were  to  be  our  guests. 

The  young  lovers  were  to  contribute  themselves, 
and  the  spectacle  of  their  felicity.  Indeed,  I  do  not 
think  it  ever  occurred  to  any  of  us  to  so  much  as 
consult  them.  It  was  too  well  understood  that  they 
would  go  smiling  along  with  us  —  asking  no  ques- 
tions—  for  a  leap  into  the  bottomless  pit,  so  they 
were  but  suffered  to  go  together.  Mr.  DeWitt  and 
Miss  Bucks,  who  each  boarded  above  Seventy-fourth 
Street,  were  to  come  down  to  our  house  Sunday 
morning,  any  time  before  ten  o'clock,  and  the  as- 
sembled picnic  was  to  proceed  from  there  to  some 
point  which  Jim  had,  as  he  explained,  "  scouted 
out." 

When  I  asked  Bushrod  Floyd  how  he  was  inclined 
for  a  day  in  the  woods,  he  answered  me,  somewhat 
whimsically,  "  A  day !  A  day  in  the  woods !  Why, 
is  there  any  such  possible  subdivision  of  time  as 
a  day?  What  can  anybody  do  with  an  inadequate 
day?  No,  no,  I'm  not  complaining —  You  and  a 
day!  Why,  I  think  it  will  answer." 

And  as  he  concluded  this  characteristic  speech, 
looking  up  at  me  from  his  drawing-board  with  Bush- 
rod's  gentle,  half-melancholy  smile,  Frank,  whom 
I  had  not  supposed  to  be  in  the  building,  stepped  out 
of  his  room  and  came  toward  us,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
my  face. 

I  had  made  myself  the  subject  of  uproarious 
laughter  and  ridicule  by  announcing  rny  intention 
to  invite  him  to  the  picnic.  They  had  confided  to 
each  other,  in  my  presence,  that  it  needed  some  one 
from  the  remote  wilds  of  West  Texas  to  come  and 
invite  the  president  of  the  Salem  Publishing  Com- 


<&       "  Underneath  the  Bough "     «$»    253 

pany — to  invite  even  that  exclusive  and  unapproach- 
able gentleman,  Mr.  Francis  Randolph  —  to  a 
Sunday  picnic. 

So  now,  unpropitious  as  I  felt  the  occasion,  I 
turned  smilingly  to  Frank,  and  said :  "  Mr.  Ran- 
dolph, will  you  come  and  play  with  us  at  our  picnic? 
We  are  going  over  into  Jersey,  Sunday,  for  a  day 
under  the  skies." 

And,  as  he  came  to  a  stop  beside  us,  I  saw  that 
Frank's  face  was  pale,  his  eyes  hard.  He  glanced 
slowly  from  Bushrod  to  me,  and  back  again,  then 
returned,  "  We?  —  we?  "  and  smiled  coldly. 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  face  till  it  blazed  pain- 
fully —  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  had  slapped  me. 
Every  unregenerate  impulse  in  me  sprang  up  with 
a  stick  in  its  hand.  I  looked  at  him  and  hated  him ; 
each  beauty  and  grace  and  talent  he  possessed  made 
weight  upon  the  side  of  my  anger,  resentment,  and 
hatred.  I  had  asked  him  —  because  I  loved  him  and 
he  loved  me,  and  I  was  not  afraid  to  do  so  —  to 
come  and  spend  a  day  in  the  woods,  where  I  should 
be  one  of  the  party;  an  invitation  Bushrod  had 
thanked  me  for  so  eagerly,  and  which  it  seemed  to 
me  my  own  avowed  lover  need  not  have  scorned; 
and  he  had  answered  —  and  before  another's  eyes  — 
with  a  cold  sneer. 

I  was  too  deeply  wounded,  too  confused  with  pain 
and  anger  to  venture  upon  any  retort.  Bushrod,  I 
felt,  comprehended  the  scene,  and  would  have 
spoken ;  but  I  never  meant  to  do  anything  but  stand 
by  my  guns,  so  I  said  quickly,  meeting  Frank's  cold 
look  with  one  of  bitter  defiance : 

"  Yes,  we  —  Mr.  Floyd  and  I  —  the  Corcoran 


254         «$*         The  Last  Word  «$» 

household,  Mr.  DeWitt  and  Miss  Bucks;  and  Jim 
Baxter,  the  originator  of  the  plan." 

The  "  Mr.  Floyd  and  I  "  went  home,  as  I  had 
meant  it  should,  and  I  saw  Frank's  pale  face  grow 
yet  paler.  But,  "  You  could  not  fail  of  a  delightful 
day  —  whether  in  Jersey  or  elsewhere  —  with  so 
bright  and  congenial  a  party,"  he  said,  courteously; 
and  added,  "  I  only  regret  that  I  shall  be  out  of 
town  Saturday,  and  Sunday  forenoon." 

My  eyes  were  fastened  upon  his;  I  would  have 
suffered  anything  rather  than  wince  or  recede,  and 
he  finally  replied  to  them,  "  I  give  you  all  my  good 
wishes,"  and  with  another  glance  which  included 
Bushrod  and  me,  and  a  most  graceful  salutation, 
he  passed  out. 

Poor  Bushrod  held  his  eyes  down,  his  face  all 
pink  with  distress.  But  I  thrust  the  pain  and  anger 
away  from  me,  and  with  a  gay  word  or  two  left  him, 
nor  was  I  at  the  office  again  before  our  picnic.  I 
was  strangely  able  to  dismiss  the  ugly  scene  from 
my  immediate  thoughts.  It  was  as  though  I  said  to 
it,  "  Stand  back,  please,  and  wait  your  turn." 

And  through  all  our  tumult  of  gay  preparation 
and  anticipation,  I  was  singularly  light-hearted  and 
happy. 

When,  on  Sunday  morning,  those  men  drove  up 
with  the  turnout,  Mrs.  Corcoran  and  I  were  watch- 
ing from  the  front  window.  She  clutched  my  arm. 
"Look  at  that  thing  —  it's  a  patrol-wagon!"  she 
exclaimed. 

I  myself  had  been  occupied  with  admiring  the  fine 
horses  Tim  had  brought;  but  when  I  examined  the 
vehicle  in  question  I  was  obliged  to  admit,  Polonius- 
wise,  that  it  was  backed  very  like  a  patrol  wagon. 


<&>        "  Underneath  the  Bough  "     «$»  '  255 

On  the  driver's  seat,  in  front,  sat  Jim  and  Mr.  Cor- 
coran; and  behind  that,  seats  ran  along  the  two 
sides  of  the  thing.  The  big  red  wheels  and  the 
high  dashboard,  with  its  double  lamps,  were  points 
of  fatal  similarity;  the  brake  handle  suggested  the 
gong,  and  even  the  big  handsome  team  and  heavy 
harness,  all  glorious  with  knobs  and  rings  and  orna- 
ments of  brass,  increased  the  degrading  resemblance. 

This  was  a  check,  and  we  all  felt  it  so.  The 
lovers,  who  were  exchanging  whispered  remarks  as 
they  finished  packing  the  last  lunch-basket,  came 
hurrying  hand  in  hand  to  the  window,  and  looked 
out.  There  was  a  pause  in  the  cheery  bustle  of 
preparation. 

But  Miss  Bucks,  who  had  just  arrived  in  a  hat  of 
the  wash-basin  variety,  around  which  some  semi- 
transparent  stuff  was  skimpily  festooned,  a  streamer 
of  it  dangling  lank  and  weedy  at  the  back,  Miss 
Bucks  opined  that  what  she  had  passed  at  our  door 
was  "  a  very  smart  turnout."  And  Bushrod  Floyd 
having  come  down  the  street,  big,  fresh,  and  looking 
most  unusually  well  in  speckless  white  flannels,  also 
laughed  good-naturedly  at  our  dismay.  Moreover, 
when  the  fevered  ardour  of  picnickery  is  coursing 
through  your  veins,  it  will  take  more  —  it  will  take 
much  more  —  than  a  little  matter  of  a  distasteful 
conveyance  to  cool  it.  And  something  approaching 
this  ardour  was  visible  in  every  eye.  Even  Mr. 
DeWitt  showed  a  hilarity  which,  considering  his 
usual  manner  of  quiet  alertness,  might  be  called  little 
short  of  boisterous.  So  we  went  down  and  climbed 
into  the  penal  chariot,  and  fled  away  toward  Jersey 
with  light  hearts. 

And  it  was  a  lovely  spot  Jim  had  found,  a  spot 


256         «$»         The  Last  Word  -^ 

astonishingly  secluded,  in  the  midst  of  so  close  a  civi- 
lisation and  cultivation,  dim,  still,  withdrawn,  apart, 
with  big  trees  whispering  sedately,  a  bit  of  water, 
rocks,  and  glimpses  of  sky. 

Genevieve,  the  English  girl,  and  lover  of  out-door 
life,  was  particularly  happy  in  these  surroundings. 
And  they  suited  her.  I  thought  I  had  never  seen 
her  so  harmonious  and  so  likable.  But  when  I 
looked  at  all  the  others  in  turn,  it  seemed  to  me  it 
was  much  the  same  with  each.  Our  day,  our  condi- 
tions and  our  mood,  all  seemed  favouring  and 
happy. 

So  we  settled  down  blissfully  in  a  beautiful  shady 
spot,  beside  a  clear  pool.  The  voice  of  one  reading 
aloud,  the  running  response  of  pleasant  laughter, 
lapsed  occasionally  into  comment  or  reminiscence. 
All  was  peace. 

"  I  here  take  occasion  to  confess,  in  justice  to  our 
Western  members,"  remarked  Mr.  DeWitt,  lowering 
the  book  and  looking  across  the  undulating  green- 
ness, "  that  this  isn't  nearly  so  bad  as  I  painted  it." 
Then  his  clear,  pleasing  voice  took  up  the  narrative 
which  so  amused  and  interested  every  one  of  those 
widely  varying  tastes  and  intelligences.  There 
showed  Mr.  DeWitt's  clever  intuition. 

I  had  never  guessed  till  that  day  of  the  picnic 
how  charming  a  companion  Bushrod  Floyd  could 
be.  Big,  strong,  even-tempered,  self-effacing,  he 
was  the  ideal  man  for  such  an  excursion.  It  was  he 
who  brought  the  cushions  from  our  hated  vehicle, 
placed  them  against  the  boles  of  giant  trees,  and 
made  comfortable  couches  on  which  we  women  could 
lounge;  going  then  and  lying  down  on  the  grass, 


UNDERNEATH    THE    BOUGH 


«^        "  Underneath  the  Bough "     <&     257 

his  hat  tipped  over  his  eyes,  and  promulgating  strong 
and  varied  assertions  of  perfect  comfort. 

It  was  he  who  provided  the  book  from  which  Mr. 
DeWitt  read.  "  I  put  it  in  as  my  contribution  to  the 
lunch,"  he  explained,  gravely.  "  People  who  sit 
about  under  trees  on  a  day  like  this  and  fail  to 
read  some  poetry,  will  go  home  spiritually  hungry. 
You  dropped  this,  Miss  Cara.  It  was  the  book- 
marker I  made  when  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
read  to  us.  I  don't  think  it  appropriate  for  DeWitt." 
And  he  turned  with  his  arm  under  his  head,  and 
looked  in  dreamy  content  off  toward  the  little  line  of 
sparkling  water,  where  a  tiny  river  ran  between  the 
trees.  I  took  my  souvenir  and  read: 

"  A  book  of  verses  underneath  the  bough, 
A  jug  of  wine,  a  loaf  of  bread  and  thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  wilderness  — 
Ah,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow." 

The  lines  were  framed  with  one  of  his  inimitable 
decorative  borders.  A  half-seen  figure,  hidden 
behind  the  tree  trunk,  the  bended  arm  and  slender 
hand  reaching  down  to  clasp  jug  and  loaf,  the  book 
laid  open,  and  the  suggested  beauty  of  dappled  sun- 
shine and  shadow  in  its  handling. 

I,  alone,  of  course,  noted  the  curved  little  finger  on 
that  hand,  and  smiled.  When  the  dainty  thing  in 
going  the  rounds  reached  Jim,  he  howled  melodi- 
ously. He  had  had  the  arrangements  too  much  on 
his  mind  to  eat  any  breakfast,  and  the  sight  of  that 
frugal  meal  which  Omar  sang  was  too  much  for 
him.  He  declared  noisily  that  he  was  dying  of 
hunger,  that  no  coyote  was  ever  torn  by  the  pangs 
of  famine  as  was  he  at  that  moment. 


258         ^        The  Last  Word  <&> 

"  Oh,  say !  Let's  have  dinner,"  he  pleaded. 
"  Don't  you  know  that's  what  a  picnic  is  ?  It's 
dinner  —  away  off  out-of-doors  somewhere ;  but 
it's  dinner,  you  know.  Great  Scott!  I'm  starving. 
I  could  eat  a  —  " 

"  There,  there,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Corcoran,  laugh- 
ing, "  you  shall  have  dinner."  And  so  the  lunch 
was  got  out  before  anybody  but  Jim  was  ready  for 
it.  The  rest  of  us  nibbled  a  little,  then  agreed  to  put 
the  lunch  away  and  go  about  on  an  exploring  tour 
for  exercise  and  appetite. 

Jim  naturally  did  not  feel  so  restlessly  inclined, 
so  he  lay  down  on  the  grass  with  a  book  and  his 
cigar,  to  guard  the  picnic  belongings. 

We  returned,  nearly  two  hours  later,  from  a  long, 
rough,  hot,  happy  tramp,  in  high  spirits,  and  as 
hungry  as  Jim  had  described  himself  to  be. 

Now  I  admit,  of  course,  that  we  were  picnickers, 
wilful,  premeditated  picnickers,  and  as  such,  fair 
sport  for  the  gods,  and  deserving  of  no  sympathy; 
but  when  our  hurried  investigations  discovered  Jim 
fast  asleep,  and  no  food  —  no,  not  a  crumb  —  in  any 
basket,  we  were  none  the  less  sunk  in  despair.  Even 
the  lovers  looked  blue. 

"  Jim !  Sit  up,  here.  What  the  deuce  —  "  began 
Mr.  Corcoran;  and  when  Jim  sat  sleepily  up,  we  all 
stood  about  him  and  told  him  in  anguished  tones 
of  the  robbery  which  had  been  committed  during  his 
guardianship. 

"  Oh,  no,"  deprecated  Jim,  a  little  bewildered,  "  I 
guess  nothing's  been  stolen.  I  was  right  here,  you 
know." 

A  general  laugh  relieved  the  tension  for  a  moment. 
Then  Jim  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  —  I 


«$»        "  Underneath  the  Bough "     «$»     259 

gave  a  fellow  some  stuff.  There's  plenty  left, 
though,"  reassuringly.  "  I  never  took  a  thing  out 
of  that  basket  over  there." 

"  No,"  cried  Mrs.  Corcoran,  wildly,  jerking  off 
the  lid,  "  I  know  you  didn't,  for  there's  nothing  but 
napkins  and  china  and  silver  in  it,  except  some 
wretched  pickles !  " 

"  He  was  hungry,"  explained  Jim.  "  Great  Scott ! 
I  couldn't  help  but  sympathise  with  a  fellow  that  was 
starving!  I  only  gave  him  a  square  meal." 

"  '  Square  meal '  must  be  a  very  elastic  term  in 
Texas,"  observed  Mr.  DeWitt,  airily. 

"  Well,  he  kept  liking  things,  and  I  kept  giving 
them  to  him.  Then  he  said  he  had  a  wife  and  six 
children,  and  I  knew  they'd  need  something  —  " 

"  And  you'd  had  your  dinner,"  cut  in  Mr.  Cor- 
coran, morosely. 

"  So,  I  reckon  I  must  have  given  him  the  rest 
of  the  cold  grub,"  finished  Jim. 

Then,  that  punishment  which  fits  the  crime  of 
picnicking  overtook  us.  We  fell  out.  There  was 
rancour,  there  were  open  recrimination  and  bitter- 
ness. We  forgot  our  Christianity,  our  humanity, 
our  manners,  and  were  as  abusive  as  picnickers 
always  are  when  their  fate  meets  them,  in  whatever 
guise  is  predestined,  —  rain,  a  fall  in  the  water,  a 
basket  containing  the  can-opener  and  the  cork-screw 
left  at  home,  or  a  wrong  road  taken  by  the  self- 
appointed  guide  and  leader. 

In  this  slough  of  shame  and  degradation,  Mr. 
DeWitt  showed  much  the  decentest  of  the  lot  of  us; 
his  worst  gibes  were  only  mildly  sarcastic,  not  bru- 
tally abusive  like  those  of  the  others;  and  at  the 


260        «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

last  he  laughed,  lit  a  cigar,  and,  smoking,  held  his 
peace. 

The  dancing  rapier  of  his  light  raillery  was  as 
a  harmless  toy  beside  the  assaults  of  Mr.  Corcoran's 
sulky  broadsword,  Jim's  defensive  axe,  Mrs.  Cor- 
coran's javelins,  my  club,  or  Genevieve's  vast  and 
well-planted  chunks  of  sodden  truth. 

Casting  these  enormous,  dense,  moist  missiles 
copiously,  and  as  untiringly  as  would  a  powerful 
piece  of  mechanism,  Genevieve  presently  swamped 
and  utterly  squelched  the  whole  uprising.  We  were 
glad  to  withdraw  with  life  and  breath  and  hearing. 
We  were,  all  and  singular,  absolutely  shut  up.  I 
looked  upon  the  girl  with  admiration  not  untinctured 
with  awe.  Never  before  had  I  conceived  the  force 
of  the  saying  that  Truth  is  mighty  and  will  prevail, 
as  I  did  now,  watching  Genevieve  sling,  like  some 
terrible  brazen  android,  these  great  slabs  of  cold, 
soggy  fact. 

Mr.  DeWitt  sat  apart  on  a  hospitable-looking 
stump,  serenely  smoking,  but  undeniably  finding  a 
delicately  malicious  enjoyment  in  the  whole  shindy 
and  its  curious  extinguishment. 

During  the  fray,  which  may  be  characterised  as 
"  the  late  uncivil  war,"  Bushrod  Floyd  had  done 
what  was  possible  to  pacify  all  parties.  He  backed 
Jim's  assertions,  till  Mrs.  Corcoran  let  go  the  real 
offender,  turned  upon  Bushrod  tartly,  and  suggested 
that,  although  he  never  ate  at  all,  —  a  most  unkind 
allusion  to  his  bulk,  —  he  might  have  some  consid- 
eration for  us,  since  we  were  mere  material  people, 
and  actually  lived  upon  food. 

Hastening  to  enroll  himself  under  her  banner, 
he  received  some  grumbling  assaults  from  Jim.  At- 


<&•       "Underneath  the  Bough"     «^     261 

tempting  to  agree  with  Mr.  DeWitt,  we  all  attacked 
him;  and,  his  courteous  pacifications  getting  in  the 
way  of  Genevieve's  catapult,  he  was  quite  buried 
under  the  precision  of  her  accusations. 

When  the  clash  of  arms  sank  into  silence,  Mrs. 
Corcoran  said  at  Jim : 

"  Well,  I've  got  some  more  of  what  you  call  '  cold 
grub '  at  home.  I  think  we  would  better  go  there 
and  get  it.  I  feel  quite  weak  with  hunger."  And 
we  all  climbed  into  the  hated  patrol-wagon  in 
gloomy  silence,  and  drove  back  toward  home. 

The  lovers  gazed  wanly  into  each  others'  eyes  as 
they  went  up  over  the  big  red  wheel.  Poor  babes! 
They  hadn't  chirped  since  the  cloud  of  calamity 
burst  upon  our  heads. 

Bushrod  begged  plaintively  the  privilege  of  sitting 
beside  me.  "  It's  the  old  story  of  the  man  and  the 
boy  and  the  donkey,"  he  said  sadly,  "  who  tried 
to  please  everybody  and  pleased  nobody." 

"  And  you  are  the  donkey,  I  suppose,"  added  Mrs. 
Corcoran,  coarsely. 

And  in  this  very  low  spiritual  state  we  began  our 
return  drive,  publishing  to  any  one  who  had  cared 
to  observe,  how  little  the  human  animal,  when  hun- 
gry, differs  from  the  (supposedly)  more  greedy  and 
violent  of  his  four-footed  brethren. 

Jim  and  Mr.  Corcoran  sat  in  front  as  before,  Jim 
driving.  Entire  good  feeling  began  visibly  to  grow 
again  between  the  two  big,  honest,  forthright  male 
creatures ;  but  Mrs.  Corcoran  and  I,  at  the  tail  end 
of  the  vehicle,  opposite  each  other,  gazed  at  Jim's 
broad  shoulders  and  exchanged  Masonic  glances 
expressive  of  our  common  hungry  resentment  and 
unabated  rancour.  The  lovers  sat  in  piteous,  Mr. 


262         «f»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

DeWitt  in  philosophic,  silence;  Genevieve,  though 
hushed  for  the  moment,  plainly  ready  to  burst  out 
fulminating  more  bulk  truth  upon  the  least  provo- 
cation. 

We  crossed  the  river  and  were  just  driving  away 
from  the  ferry,  when  we  met  a  handsomely  appointed 
victoria.  I  caught,  at  the  moment,  only  the  flashing 
silver  mounting  of  the  turnout,  the  rich  liveries, 
and  a  beautiful  parasol.  We  had  nearly  passed  the 
equipage,  when  I  saw  a  signalling  hand  wave  from  it, 
and  Jim  drew  up  with  his  usual  skill.  Then  I  dis- 
covered Miss  Salem's  smiling  face  beneath  the  chif- 
fons of  the  parasol ;  and  beside  her  —  Frank. 

Miss  Salem  was  a  person  whom  it  was  ever  pleas- 
ant to  meet,  the  more,  rather  than  the  less  so,  if  you 
were  in  a  mess;  for  she  herself  was  always  in  the 
conventionally  correct  path,  and  ready  to  lend  a  hand, 
or  failing  that,  to  at  least  be  sympathetic  and  heartily 
amused  at  whatever  was  toward. 

I  had  just  leaned  forward,  laughing,  to  a  position 
whence  I  could  see  and  speak  to  her,  when  I  caught 
sight  of  Mr.  DeWitt's  countenance.  He  had  in- 
stantly drawn  back,  and  the  expression  on  his 
flushed  face  was  one  of  displeasure  and  embarrass- 
ment. Evidently,  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
escape  the  encounter.  Why?  I  wondered  in  blank 
surprise. 

"I  believe  you  people  have  been  picnicking!" 
called  Miss  Salem,  gaily.  "  How  delightful !  " 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Corcoran,  feverishly, 
from  behind  me,  bending  around  my  shoulder  to 
smile  at  her  friend,  then  glancing  anxiously  at  Miss 
Bucks,  as  though  fearing  that  enfant  terrible  might 


«£*        "  Underneath  the  Bough "     *&>     263 

make  a  sudden  revelation  of  our  fallen  state,  all  in 
a  few  words. 

"  Quite  a  family  party,"  added  Frank,  glancing 
with  hostile  eyes  to  where  Bushrod  and  I  sat,  quiet, 
content,  the  only  really  peaceful  people  in  the  assem- 
blage. 

"  Why,  yes,"  returned  Mr.  Corcoran,  "  the  office 
is  pretty  well  represented." 

I  saw  Miss  Salenrs  glance  travel  to  Mr.  DeWitt, 
who  had  not  spoken  at  all;  and  I,  too,  looked  at 
him.  Then,  while  she  turned  to  Mr.  Corcoran  and 
gave  him  the  message  which  she  had  stopped  us 
to  deliver,  I  continued  to  study  the  face  of  my  editor. 
Put  out,  thrown  off  his  habitual  balance,  as  he  was, 
his  countenance  seemed  to  me  to  reflect  like  a  mirror 
his  whole  mental  attitude.  We  were  a  parcel  of 
employes  (employes!  hated  word  —  red  rag  to  the 
bull  of  American  independence),  in  a  hired  livery 
turnout,  halted  before  the  elegant  carriage  of  the 
rich  stockholders.  He  was  embarrassed,  angry,  re- 
sentful. He  hated  the  position  which,  in  his  own 
mind,  he  had  assigned  to  us. 

"  Well,"  I  thought,  "  we  must  all  have  our  weak- 
nesses." Here  was  one  who  could  come  with  unruf- 
fled grace  through  the  ordeal  of  that  dreadful  picnic ; 
and  he  was  finding  galls,  wounds  without  cause,  in 
a  fancied  humiliation,  a  mean  little  sordid  thought, 
which  had  touched  no  one  else  in  the  whole  party 
—  least  of  all,  Miss  Salem. 

He  sat  silent  and  glum  throughout  all  the  excite- 
ment of  our  subsequent  terrible  adventure,  and  I 
saw  no  reason,  then  or  thereafter,  to  alter  my  con- 
clusion. 

We  drove  through  the  body  of  town,  mile  after 


264         «f»        The  Last  Word  <& 

mile,  in  almost  complete  silence,  and  were  going 
along  up  Ninth  Avenue,  approaching  the  region  of 
the  park,  when  there  burst  upon  the  Sunday  quiet 
a  sudden  clang  and  clattering,  and  with  the  sharp 
sounding  of  a  gong,  a  police  patrol-wagon  dashed 
down  the  avenue,  stopped  a  moment  to  take  in  a 
disfigured  man,  a  screeching,  protesting  woman,  and 
three  or  four  white-hatted  officers,  turned  and  drove 
up  the  avenue  ahead  of  us. 

Then  there  was  performed  before  our  eyes  one 
of  the  great  city's  tricks  of  prestidigitation :  Where 
not  a  soul  had  been  seen,  a  crowd  collected,  whose 
component  units  materialised  out  of  void  space. 
They  evolved.  They  were  transformed  out  of  the 
viewless  gases  of  the  atmosphere.  From  the  unre- 
garded vapours  of  air  were  they  made  manifest. 
They  produced  themselves  spontaneously  out  of 
sheer  emptiness.  From  the  very  heart  of  blank  noth- 
ingness they  sprang,  full-grown,  and  clamorous 
with  inquiry. 

The  patrol-wagon,  with  its  ugly  freight,  went 
rapidly  up  the  avenue. 

Then  it  became  apparent  that  we  had  not  tasted 
the  full  bitterness  of  the  cup  appointed  to  us.  The 
sight  of  the  speeding  team  ahead  was  to  Jim  what 
the  smell  of  battle  is  to  the  nostrils  of  a  war-horse. 
He  straightened  himself  like  a  plains  Indian;  he 
forgot  everything;  his  surroundings  melted  away 
from  him;  there  remained  but  one  object  in  life  — 
to  pass  that  team  in  front.  He  leaned  forward  and 
laid  the  whip  across  his  flying  horses.  They  jumped 
ahead,  they  held  their  own,  and  we  hung  persistently 
upon  the  wheel  of  the  fleeing  patrol-wagon.  The 


«$»        "Underneath  the  Bough"     *&     265 

policemen  looked  around  at  us  and  grinned.  We 
ourselves  smiled  a  little,  at  first. 

But  we  soon  found  that  this  had  been  a  notable 
arrest,  for  the  avenue  was  lined,  block  after  block, 
with  curious  spectators,  and  it  was  their  frank  and 
outspoken  comments  which  first  awakened  us  to 
the  fact  that  we  were  occupying  a  position  of  loath- 
some prominence  in  the  pageant. 

"  That's  the  McGuire  gang  in  the  second  section," 
cried  a  fellow  at  the  curbstone. 

An  old  Irishwoman  standing  in  front  of  a  saloon 
shook  her  fist  at  the  officers.  "  Yez  hain't  got  me, 
this  time!  "  she  yelled.  They  replied  cordially,  and 
as  our  wagon  came  abreast  of  her  she  greeted  us, 
"  Luk  at  'em,  the  murtherin'  divils,  in  the'r  foine 
clo'es!" 

"  This  is  horrible,"  gasped  Mrs.  Corcoran,  "  like 
a  bad,  bad  dream.  Oh,  try  to  stop  him !  " 

But  it  was  useless  remonstrating  with  the  blue 
serge  expanse  of  Jim's  back;  he  was  demoniacally 
possessed,  deaf  to  our  entreaties,  blind  to  our  shame- 
ful position,  and  impervious  to  pinches  and  frantic 
lunges  from  umbrellas. 

Mr.  Corcoran  refused  to  interfere.  He  sat  there 
beside  Jim,  and  laughed  until  he  wept.  The  great 
tears  bounced  out  of  his  eyes,  skipped  down  his 
cheeks,  and  hopped  into  his  beard,  giving  him  the 
appearance  of  a  very  penitent  criminal  indeed. 

We  tore  ahead  now  as  in  a  nightmare.  The 
crowds  along  the  curbstone  surged  and  gaped  and 
discussed.  Windows  were  flung  up,  and  immediately 
filled  with  delighted  spectators.  They  commented 
upon  our  good  clothes,  our  morning-glorified  hats 
—  which  we  had  trimmed  so  blithely  for  the  festive 


266         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

occasion  —  they  thrust  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks 
and  gibed  at  us;  they  were  sympathetic,  ironical, 
expostulatory,  abusive,  and  altogether  happy. 

At  last  —  at  last  —  the  welcome  turning  of  Sev- 
enty-fourth Street  appeared  ahead.  Respite  was  at 
hand! 

But,  no,  it  was  not  to  be. 

When  that  horrible  Juggernaut,  whose  big  red 
wheels  were  grinding  over  our  heart-strings  and 
our  self-respect,  came  abreast  of  the  opening  through 
which  our  agonised  eyes  saw  escape  and  safety,  it 
swung  around  the  corner  and  swept  into  the  quiet 
street  in  advance  of  us! 

Thus  were  we  escorted  to  the  very  door  of  our 
respectable  home,  brought  back  from  our  picnic  by 
a  patrol-wagon,  a  squad  of  police,  and  a  hooting 
mob! 

I  should  have  been  sure  our  neighbours  would 
enjoy  it.  But  we  were  not  obliged  to  depend  upon 
mere  moral  certainty.  Their  pleased  surprise  was 
made  entirely  manifest. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

The   Breaking  Gulf 

"  Ah,  do  not  tear  away  thyself  from  me  I 
For  know,  my  love,  as  easy  mayst  thou  fall 
A  drop  of  water  in  the  breaking  gulf 
And  take  un mingled  thence  that  drop  again 
Without  addition  or  diminishing, 
As  take  from  me  thyself  and  not  me  too." 

WHEN  I  remembered  that  moment  in  the  office, 
when  Frank  had  stood  confronting  me,  looking  from 
Bushrod  to  me  with  angry,  hostile  eyes,  and  sneering 
lip;  and  that  other  encounter,  on  our  way  home 
from  the  picnic ;  when  I  thought  of  the  fierce  resent- 
ment and  hatred  that  had  torn  at  my  heart,  the 
belief  was  forced  upon  me  that  Frank  and  I  had 
come  to  the  end  of  all  things  between  us.  Even  apart 
from  these  occurrences,  work  on  the  big  book  under 
the  most  untiring  of  taskmasters  had  grown  to  be 
intolerable.  Whether  it  was  the  work  itself,  or 
Frank's  jealous  affection  that  was  like  a  leg-chain, 
I  was  too  wearied  to  say.  It  appeared  to  me  that  I 
never  drew  a  free  breath  in  those  days.  I  was  al- 
ways inordinately  expectant,  or  disproportionately 
disappointed. 

Poor  Bushrod !  he,  I  knew,  saw  the  whole  thing. 
Of  course  eyes  like  his  would  read  such  a  situation 
as  though  it  had  been  print,  and  then  he  too  had 

267 


268         •&        The  Last  Word  -$» 

been  under  that  iron  will  —  that  steely  disfavour. 
He  knew  what  it  was  to  have  his  best  rejected  be- 
cause it  had  been  offered  when  his  cousin's  mood  was 
unpropitious.  But  most  of  all,  he  knew  what  it  was 
to  have,  when  writhing  under  self-condemnation,  the 
weight  of  Frank's  displeasure  added. 

Monday  and  Tuesday  I  did  not  see  Frank  at  all. 
And  all  that  time  the  question  asked  itself  in  my 
heart,  "  What  now?  "  On  Wednesday  afternoon  I 
came  to  a  place  in  my  work  where  I  must  have  a 
note-book  which  was  lying  in  my  table  drawer  in 
the  little  studio.  "  As  well  now  as  later,"  I  said 
to  myself,  and  took  a  Broadway  car  down  to  Tenth 
Street. 

When  I  walked  quietly  in  at  the  studio  door, 
my  partner  was  standing  by  that  table  with  that 
drawer  open,  and  upon  his  face  was  the  expression 
of  a  woman  who  has  unearthed  a  nest  of  young 
mice.  Before  him,  unfolded  and  scattered,  was  a 
little  bunch  of  Bushrod's  verses,  which  had  been, 
from  time  to  time,  given  me. 

They  were  none  of  them  those  rhymes  I  had  first 
read,  but  were  all  —  under  whatever  title  and  in 
whatever  guise  —  addressed  to  one  person.  They 
breathed  utter  devotion;  they  voiced  passionate 
sadness.  There  was  nothing  asked,  nothing  expected 
in  any  of  them;  but  a  heart  was  laid  bare  to  you 
with  all  its  love,  with  all  its  longing,  to  make  such 
plea  as  it  might. 

"  For  heaven's  sake !  What  is  this  mess  of 
trash  ? "  cried  Frank,  indicating  the  manuscript 
with  his  pencil,  at  some  little  distance,  as  though 
it  were  indeed  the  unexpectedly  found  vermin. 

I  had  afterward  no  knowledge  of  how  I  reached 


«$»  The  Breaking  Gulf       «£»        269 

the  table  and  my  rifled  drawer.  "  Who  opened  it  ?  " 
I  asked,  and  my  voice  came  strange  to  my  ears. 

Frank  felt  himself,  of  course,  wholly  in  the  wrong 
in  this  matter.  But  in  those  days,  to  be  in  the 
wrong  meant  to  Frank  to  fight  harder,  to  go  further, 
to  do  more,  in  the  same  line. 

"  I  opened  it,"  he  told  me.  "  I  was  looking  for 
a  rubber  of  mine  which  you  borrowed  the  other 
day.  It  was  a  special  size,  and  1  happened  to  need 
it.  I  saw  that  fellow's  handwriting,  and  I  took  the 
stuff  out  and  read  it  —  as  much  of  it  as  I  could 
stand.  I  never  dreamed  of  any  one  being  such 
an  idiot." 

"  You  read  it !  "  I  repeated. 

"  Had  I  not  a  perfect  right  to  read  it  ?  "  he  de- 
manded. "  Will  you  deny  that  I  had  a  perfect 
right  to  read  it  ?  " 

"  Just  as  much  right  as  you  have  to  go  down  to 
the  office  and  open  Mr.  DeWitt's  desk  and  read  his 
private  correspondence,"  I  returned,  steadily. 

"  Justin  DeWitt  is  not  a  woman,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  marry  him,"  he  retorted. 

"  Nor  are  you  going  to  marry  me!  "  I  cried.  "  I 
would  sooner  be  dead  —  oh,  I  would  sooner  die 
right  now !  —  than  look  forward  to  a  lifetime  passed 
with  such  a  man  as  you,  Frank."  Then,  in  silence, 
I  began  gathering  up  poor  Bushrod's  verses.  For 
once,  I  gained,  and  by  that  means,  the  upper  hand. 

"  Were  those  things  addressed  to  you  ?  "  asked 
Frank,  as  I  still  uttered  no  word. 

"  It  is  a  matter  which  certainly  does  not  con- 
cern you,"  I  returned. 

"It  does  not  concern  me?"  he  inquired.  "Not 
concern  me  that  a  creature  like  that  should  presume 


270         «9»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

to  address  in  such  terms  the  woman  I  am  going  to 
marry ! " 

"  Frank,"  I  said,  "  that  is  the  second  time  you 
have  made  that  assertion,  and  I  tell  you  again  it 
is  not  true." 

He  caught  my  wrist  and  pulled  me  toward  the 
light.  "  Are  you  in  love  with  that  —  that  thing?  " 
he  demanded,  fiercely. 

I  had  about  gotten  my  belongings  together  when 
he  spoke.  Now,  as  he  released  me,  I  pushed  them 
into  the  drawer,  all  excepting  the  verses,  which  I 
retained  in  my  hand.  I  could  send  for  the  stuff  later. 
At  present,  my  chief  anxiety  was  to  get  away  while 
I  could  make  a  decently  composed  exit. 

"  That  thing,  as  you  call  him,"  I  said,  "  has  more 
real  love  for  me,  and  more  respect,  than  you  ever 
had,  and  I  will  not  hear  you  speak  so  of  him.  You 
should  be  ashamed  to  speak  to  him  as  you  do.  It's 
all  over  between  us,  Frank.  This  is  final.  But  you 
need  not  blame  him.  The  trouble  did  not  come 
through  him.  It  is  yourself  who  have  given  a  final 
answer  to  the  whole  question.  And  I  thank  God 
that  you  have  at  last  left  me  no  shadow  of  alter- 
native —  not  the  least  little  loophole  where  a  decent 
self-respect  would  allow  me  to  crawl  back !  " 

If  I  had  looked  for  one  spark  of  relenting,  I  should 
have  been  disappointed.  Before,  when  we  had  quar- 
relled, there  had  been  no  jealousy  in  it,  or,  at  most, 
the  jealousy  had  been  abstract.  Now,  I  was  to  see 
that  side  of  Frank's  character  which  was  bitterest 
and  narrowest. 

"  Oh,  the  unutterable  pettiness  of  it  all !  "  I  cried. 
"  In  love  with  him !  I  must  be  that  —  must  I  ?  — 
before  I  can  treat  a  fellow  creature  kindly !  " 


«$»  The  Breaking  Gulf      <&        271 

The  door  was  swung  open  and  the  old  pencil 
vender,  with  whom  and  at  whom  we  had  often 
laughed,  put  his  head  into  the  room. 

"  Want  a  pencil  to  draw  'er  picture  with  ?  There's 
a  hundred  pictures  of  her  and  a  thousand  love  letters 
to  her  in  the  lead  of  every  one  of  'em.  Better  buy  a 
bunch.  You'll  never  be  tired  of  looking  at  the  pic- 
tures, and  she'll  never  be  tired  of  reading  the  letters." 

He  pushed  his  way  into  the  room,  and  under  cover 
of  his  importunity,  I  put  Bushrod's  despised  verses 
into  an  envelope  and  prepared  to  depart. 

I  felt  deeply  that  it  was  a  pitiful  outcome  to 
such  a  scene.  I  knew  that  I  should  have  defended 
myself  and  the  poor  absent  one,  whose  pathetic  devo- 
tion had  been  made  the  subject  of  bitter  jest  and 
taunt;  but  I  was  silently  following  in  the  wake  of 
the  departing  pencil  man,  when  Frank's  voice  re- 
called me. 

"Do  not  go,"  he  said;  "you  and  I  will  never 
have  a  better  opportunity  to  talk  these  matters  over 
and  settle  them,  than  here  and  now." 

I  turned  back  and  faced  him.  "  No,"  I  said, 
"  there  is  no  time  like  the  present  —  if  there  is 
anything  more  to  be  said.  For  my  part,  I  have  told 
you  that  everything  is  at  an  end  between  us,  and  I 
mean  it.  Why  then  should  I  listen  to  your  re- 
proaches or  you  demand  my  excuses?" 

"  You  put  me  in  the  wrong,"  Frank  answered. 
"  I  am  demanding  no  excuses.  I  merely  ask  —  I 
plead  —  for  some  explanation  of  this  thing  which 
has  been  so  strange  and  so  humiliating  to  me." 

I  was  aghast  at  the  statement.  I  could  scarcely 
believe  that  he  alluded  in  these  terms  to  such  a 
pitiful  and  empty  relation  as  that  between  his  cousin 


The  Last  Word 


and  myself.  And  yet  I  swiftly  realised,  when  I 
thought  of  it  with  such  light  upon  the  matter  as 
these  verses  might  give,  that  to  a  man  of  Frank's 
jealous,  overweening  pride,  the  situation  might  call 
for  some  explanation. 

"  Ask  me,"  I  said,  "  ask  anything  you  like.  I 
am  here  ready  to  answer  you  now."  And  I  added 
mentally,  "  I  never  shall  be  again." 

The  permission  seemed  to  daunt  my  hearer.  It 
appeared  that  he  had  no  question  ready. 

"  Ever  since  I  saw  you  two  together  returning 
from  that  famous  picnic,"  he  began  finally,  "  I  have 
felt  —  I  have  wondered  —  How  long  has  this 
thing  been  going  on  ?  " 

"  What  thing?  "  I  inquired  steadily. 

"  Why,  this  hole-and-corner  love-making.  This 
secret  spooning,  these  drivelling  rhymes  and 
letters  ?  " 

Certainly,  now,  he  had  arrived  at  the  extreme  of 
insult.  I  answered  him  fiercely,  furiously,  burn- 
ingly.  I  struck  with  all  my  mind's  power  at  the 
spirit  behind  that  white  face  and  those  steely  eyes 
bent  upon  me. 

Frank,  beside  himself,  laid  half-unconscious  hands 
upon  me,  so  that  the  shaking  of  his  frame  shook  me 
also.  And  at  the  utmost  mark  of  my  madness,  in 
the  very  excess  and  ecstasy  of  furious  resentment, 
something  outside  the  bruised,  stung,  scorching,  pal- 
pitating girl,  standing  confronting  the  agony  of  her 
life  —  her  heart's  tragedy  —  saw,  felt,  understood 
—  the  man's  pain  and  rage  and  blindness  —  saw 
where  he  stood,  and  how  he  was  moved.  Something, 
which  was  yet  myself,  too,  as  truly  as  this  suffering, 
raging  girl  was  myself,  something  calm  and  great 


«9»  The  Breaking  Gulf      «$»        273 

and  all-knowing  and  benignant,  had  kindness  past  all 
words  for  him  and  for  the  rage  and  pain  which  made 
him  strike  so  deep,  so  deep,  the  heart  he  loved. 

There  was  nothing  now  but  to  give  Frank  up; 
I  doubted  not  for  an  instant  that  this  never  could  be 
mended  or  patched,  as  other  tiffs  and  quarrels  be- 
tween us  had  been.  But  through  it  all,  this  some- 
thing outside  of  my  own  agony  talked  to  me  of  his 
suffering.  I  saw  him  for  an  instant  as  he  was, 
blinded  by  jealous  rage,  moved  by  the  most  un- 
worthy motives,  and  yet  the  man  I  loved,  the  man 
whom  I  needs  must  love,  as  it  seemed  to  me  even 
then,  in  the  depths  of  my  suffering,  through  all  my 
days. 

"  Frank,"  I  said  at  last,  "  I  do  not  intend  to 
make  any  explanations  to  you  about  Bushrod.  Such 
explanations  are  not  due  you.  You  know  that  I 
have  often,  in  the  last  six  months,  been  miserable 
and  half  heartbroken.  If  it  has  predisposed  me  to 
accept,  thoughtlessly,  some  marks  —  some  expres- 
sion —  of  a  devotion  so  utter,  a  love  so  selfless  that 
it  even  suggested  no  return,  the  one  to  whom  apolo- 
gies and  atonement  are  due  is  Bushrod  himself." 

I  was  hurrying  on  with  more,  but  Frank  broke 
in  fiercely,  "  I  find  your  explanations  worse  than 
the  offence.  You  tell  me  that  you  have  been 
wretched,  these  last  months.  The  inference  is  ob- 
vious that  I,  an  overbearing,  jealous,  insufferable 
brute,  have  made  you  wretched;  and  Bushrod 
Floyd  —  a  paragon  of  all  the  virtues,  of  course  — 
has  been  looked  to  for  comfort.  Oh,  it  is  intoler- 
able —  it  is  abominable !  When  I  think  of  that 
man's  life  —  the  opinion  he  holds  of  women  —  and 
see  him  permitted  such  intimacy  with  a  pure  girl 


274         *$*         The  Last  Word  «$» 

like  yourself,  I  could  beg  you,  even  if  it  were  not 
for  my  love,  even  if  you  cast  me  off,  to  deny  yourself 
to  him.  The  one  unbearable  thought  in  it  all  is, 
not  that  I  must  lose  you,  terrible  as  that  is  to  me, 
but  that  you  admit  this  fellow  into  the  holy  of 
holies  in  your  pure  heart,  the  place  where  I  dreamed 
no  man  save  I  could  ever  come." 

I  knew  that  most  of  this  was  simply  jealousy  and 
wounded  pride.  I  knew  poor  Bushrod's  peccadilloes 
and  failings.  Everybody  knew  them.  They  were 
open  as  the  day  to  all  comers.  I  was  not  deceived 
into  believing  him  the  monster  Frank  would  have 
hinted.  I  felt,  too,  that  this  quarrel,  while  it  had 
been  precipitated  by  Bushrod's  verses,  had  really 
nothing  to  do  with  any  person  in  the  world  save 
Frank  and  myself.  And  I  tried  to  put  this  into 
words. 

"  Frank,"  I  said,  "  it  is  not  Bushrod  nor  any  one 
else  except  yourself  who  causes  me  to  say  that  I 
will  never  go  back  to  that  which  you  call  an  engage- 
ment, and  I  call  abject  bondage.  I  am  done  with  it, 
once  and  for  ever.  As  much  as  1  love  you,  I  loathe 
to  think  of  being  bound  to  you.  It  is  not  that  you 
are  jealous  of  Bushrod.  If  it  had  not  been  that,  it 
would  have  been  something  else.  The  thing  which 
comes  up,  in  such  a  quarrel,  is  supposed  to  be  a 
cause.  It  is  not;  it  is  a  mere  effect.  Here,  it  is 
the  effect  of  your  jealous,  overbearing  tyranny  to 
which  I  can  not  and  will  not  submit." 

Frank  answered  me  with  a  sort  of  sob  in  his  voice. 
"  Cast  me  off  if  you  will,  dearest ;  but  let  me  love 
and  protect  you  still.  Promise  me  —  promise  that 
you  will  never — that  such  things  as  this,"  he  pointed 
with  a  contemptuous  gesture  to  the  package  in  my 


«f»  The  Breaking  Gulf      «^        275 

hand,  "  shall  cease.  You  don't  know,  you  can  not 
know  —  how  should  you  ?  —  what  beasts  men  can 
be.  The  woman  I  love  should  be  kept  in  an  ivory 
tower,  if  I  had  my  will.  Oh,  Carita,  my  darling,  I 
have  only  loved  you  too  well.  I  would  have  hedged 
you  about  with  my  care,  that  no  profane  thought, 
even,  should  come  near  you." 

Again  there  surged  through  my  soul  that  kind- 
ness for  poor  Frank  —  and  for  myself.  I  seemed  to 
stand  outside  —  apart  —  away  from  it  —  and  see  us 
both,  poor  children,  battling  in  the  dark.  Again 
it  shook  me  hard  with  a  passion  of  pity  and  yearn- 
ing which  had  almost  no  kinship  with  the  over- 
whelming adoration  I  felt  for  him. 

I  might  have  told  him,  perhaps,  that  such  love 
as  he  spoke  of  was  itself  the  merciless  cruelty  of 
which  I  complained,  but  I  did  not.  As  he  stood 
before  me,  pale  with  feeling,  I  gazed  long  at  his  face 
—  those  features  which  I  had  studied  with  a  heart 
full  of  choking  tenderness,  with  eyes  of  such  blind 
doting  passion;  searched  with  love  and  pain  and 
despair ;  the  face  that  had  been  my  sky,  my  weather, 
my  all ;  that  put  itself  —  with  young,  crude  arro- 
gance —  between  me  and  all  my  aims  and  purposes ; 
that  laid  its  spell  upon  me  so  that,  in  the  teeth  of 
my  own  knowing  better,  my  captive  heart  declared 
there  was  not  one  thing  in  life  worth  setting  against 
the  seeing  of  that  face  smile  upon  me. 

Going  closer,  I  said,  very  low,  "  There  is  no  fibre 
of  my  heart,  Frank,  that  is  not  utterly  yours,  whether 
I  am  always  conscious  of  it  or  not.  The  thought 
of  you  fills  every  waking  hour.  It  underlies  every- 
thing, colours  everything.  It  seems  to  me  now  that, 
until  I  met  you,  I  lived  only  a  half  life.  Whether 


276         «f»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

the  thought  of  you  is  sweet  and  lovely,  or  only  a 
grief,  a  cruel  pain,  I  must  still  return  to  it. 

"  It  has  always  been  so  —  always  —  from  the 
hour  you  left  me  in  the  train  at  Chicago.  I  am 
twenty-five  years  old,  Frank,  and  not  without  experi- 
ence of  life;  but,  at  this  age,  and  in  this  skeptical 
day,  what  happened  to  me  was,  in  the  phrase  which 
serves  to  make  us  merry,  love  at  first  sight.  I  have 
never  been  my  own  since  we  sat  and  talked  together 
that  day.  That  passion,  absolute,  overmastering, 
descended  upon  me.  I  never  grew  to  love  you  —  no 
choice  was  ever  left  me.  I  adored,  worshipped, 
longed  for  you  every  instant  of  consciousness.  I  was 
ravished  away,  as  though  plucked  by  the  fierce  hands 
of  love's  high  priest,  and  poured  out,  heart,  soul, 
and  body,  in  passionate  love,  in  tenderness  and  long- 
ing unspeakable. 

"  You  came  between  me  and  God  and  heaven,  and 
every  hope  and  aim  and  purpose  of  my  life.  I  tell 
you,  when  I  look  down  into  my  heart,  Frank,  I  see 
there,  since  that  day  we  met,  only  you.  There  has 
been  in  my  heart  since  that  day  one  hope,  one  long- 
ing —  to  possess  its  love ;  one  fear,  one  terror  —  to 
lose  it.  I  have  known  since  then  but  one  joy,  one 
good  —  our  agreement,  our  companionship;  one 
evil,  one  anguish  —  separation. 

"  This  is  the  truth.  I  tell  it  you.  No  woman's 
pride  counsels  me  to  withold  any  pitiful  part.  Be- 
cause I  say  that  this  thought  of  you,  this  love  for 
you,  which  is  like  a  mania,  a  possession,  an  addic- 
tion, I  will  be  free  of;  I  will,  or  die;  for  I  would 
rather  die  than  live  and  be  a  slave  to  it." 

In  the  first  part  of  this  speech,  Frank  had  again 
put  out  his  hands,  half  consciously,  I  thought,  and 


«38»  The  Breaking  Gulf      «f»        277 

drawn  me  toward  him,  so  that  I  both  saw  the  suf- 
fusion of  his  eyes,  and  felt  him  yield  and  shiver 
when  I  had  laid  bare  my  love  for  him. 

More  than  once,  as  I  went  on,  his  look  had 
yearned  upon  me,  heart-breakingly,  and  he  had 
moved,  as  if  to  speak.  But  when  I  had  finished, 
he  loosed  my  hands,  put  me  coldly  and  steadily  from 
him,  and  said,  in  a  voice  of  quiet  bitterness  that 
was  like  a  blade  —  a  white-hot  blade  —  in  my  heart : 

"All  this  being  so,  you  are  certainly  quite  right  — 
Cara.  God  only  knows  —  you  never  can  —  what  it 
costs  me  to  give  you  up,  my  Cara  that  was,  the 
brightest  spirit  I  have  ever  known,  and  mine,  I  be- 
lieved, for  I  always  knew  I  had  your  heart,  my 
bonny,  sunny,  pure-souled  Cara.  But  no  woman 
should  ever  say  she  was  slave  to  me,  to  my  tender 
love,  or  to  her  own  love  for  me.  She  should  never 
be  anything  to  me.  I  tell  you,  Cara,  I  would  put 
her  from  me  if  it  tore  the  heart  from  my  breast, 
the  light  from  my  life,  and  God  who  made  us  as 
we  are  knows  it  does." 

"  You  have  spoken  coals  of  fire  to  me.  You  have 
made  the  thought  of  living  with  you  —  which  was 
my  earthly  symbol  of  heaven  —  as  dreadful  to  me 
as  you  say  the  thought  of  being  mine  is  to  you. 
I  only  wish  I  had  never  to  see  your  lovely  face,  nor 
to  hear  your  sweet  voice  again." 

His  cheek  grew,  if  possible,  more  colourless,  his 
eyes  more  steely,  I  could  hear  his  breath  catch, 
and  see  his  nostril  flicker  as,  drawing  quite  away 
from  me,  he  dashed  these  words  at  me: 

"  Go  now  —  I  do  not  keep  you  —  I  will  never 
while  I  live  ask  anything  of  you  again.  I  only 
dread  to  think  how  small  the  world  is." 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

A  White   Night 

"  Whither  shall  our  way  be  whirled  — 
Through  what  vast  and  awful  spaces 
With  a  white  light  on  our  faces 
Spirit  over  spirit  furled  ?  " 

THEN  began  the  procession  of  blank,  wooden- 
faced,  meaningless,  vacant  days,  and  fierce,  terrible, 
sleepless,  mad  nights. 

Through  those  days  I  won  —  and  not  so  ill  —  by 
dint  of  sheer  spiritual  biceps.  I  worked  unceasingly. 
I  was  never  idle,  never  quiet  or  unoccupied  a 
minute.  I  did  not  allow  the  feverish  haste  of  the 
mind-sick  to  lay  hold  on  me ;  thitherward  I  knew  lay 
madness.  "  Without  haste,  without  rest,"  it  was 
with  me;  and  so,  I  won  through  the  days. 

But  when  the  day  was  done,  with  its  affairs,  its 
labours  and  activities;  when  the  evening  was  past 
and  the  latest  sitter  had  left  me;  then,  in  the  soli- 
tude and  silence  of  my  own  room,  I  faced  the  alter- 
native, work  or  bed;  and  I  could  not  work  —  not 
a  stroke  —  and  the  bed  was  a  terrible  thing  from 
which  I  mentally  fled,  running,  so  to  say,  with  my 
arms  over  my  bent  head. 

When  I  finally  lay  down,  in  mere  exhaustion,  the 
hosts  of  Pain  descended  upon  me  indeed.  After 

what  seemed  hours  of  such  agonising  as  I  thought 

278 


A    WHITE    NIGHT 


«*»  A  White  Night        <&•          279 

must  leave  my  hair  white  and  cut  lines  deep  into 
my  face,  I  would  hurry  out  of  bed,  light  the  gas,  and 
stare  wildly  around  my  little  room,  with  a  sense  of 
strangeness,  as  though  I  had  been  long  away,  and 
it  ought  to  have  changed  much. 

That  first  terrible  night  after  my  parting  with 
Frank,  a  curious  deadly  lassitude  deceived  me  into 
believing  that  I  might  sleep.  I  crept  to  my  rest 
with  thankfulness,  and  a  well-nigh  instant  uncon- 
sciousness seemed  to  graze  me. 

Then,  almost  immediately,  I  wakened,  having 
barely  slept,  and  started  up  from  bed  in  a  suffocating 
agony.  I  threw  a  dressing-gown  around  me,  and 
wandered  from  room  to  room,  reasoning,  strug- 
gling, trying  another  room,  a  different  chair,  sofa, 
window,  mental  attitude,  spiritual  position. 

In  my  own  little  sleeping-room,  so  narrow  and 
stern  and  dim-lit,  the  matter  pressed  hard  upon  me 
its  one  naked,  terrible  aspect  of  irrevocable  loss.  Out 
in  the  cheery  dining-room,  with  much  gas  blazing, 
flutterings  of  hope  and  solace  stirred  and  flitted 
uncertainly.  The  robe-hem  of  Peace  seemed  once 
to  whisper  past  me,  and  the  hand  of  Resignation  to 
touch  my  head.  But  so  awful  was  the  speed  of 
my  soul  on  these  travels,  that,  as  I  passed  back 
again  to  my  own  room,  Despair  shut  down,  down 
upon  me  in  the  chill  darkness  of  the  little  hallway. 

Thereafter,  standing  cold  and  dazed  at  a  window, 
gazing  out  upon  the  silence  of  the  street,  which 
looked  not  to  be  merely  a  city  street,  empty  of  traffic 
and  void  of  daylight,  but  a  desolate  place  forsaken 
of  men  and  forlorn  of  God's  smile,  I  heard  a  little 
chirruping,  fluting  note  from  the  room  beyond  the 
dining-room  —  Teddy's  royal  sleeping  apartment. 


28o         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

I  found  the  baby  sitting  up  in  a  broad  streak  of 
moonlight,  in  his  pretty  white  and  gold  crib,  de- 
manding of  the  kosmos  a  "  dink,"  in  the  notes  of 
a  hidden  woodland  brook. 

Glad,  thankful,  in  the  lonely  isolation  of  my 
anguish,  to  serve  some  other  living  thing,  I  found 
and  brought  the  desired  "  dink "  to  the  thirsty 
baby  lips  that,  after,  kissed  me  with  many  grateful 
cooings.  Then  I  sat  and  held  the  warm,  nestling 
little  thing  upon  my  aching  heart  till  he  slept,  and 
stirred  in  his  sleep,  fretting  against  his  unusual 
attitude.  I  laid  him  down  reluctantly,  and  went 
back  to  that  white,  moonlighted  world  which  held 
only  me  and  my  desolation. 

I  had  carried  home  those  verses  Bushrod  had 
first  given  me  —  those  he  had  called  a  valentine  — 
and  put  them  in  my  desk,  and  then  forgot  them. 
They  had  never  been  opened  nor  read.  It  is  the 
fate  of  some  people  to  have  their  best  thus  passed 
over.  Nobody  would  take  pains  for  poor  Bushrod. 
Why,  who  should,  when  he  set  so  fine  an  example  of 
indifference  to  himself? 

Now  (as  I  roamed  from  place  to  place  in  that 
species  of  aberration  known  to  a  sleepless  night,  and 
which  amounts  to  insanity)  reflecting  on  the  later 
verses  which  had  performed  so  strange  a  part  in 
Frank's  destiny  and  mine,  I  remembered  these  earlier 
ones,  made  a  light,  drew  them  out,  and  read. 

FROM   AN   OLD   GRAVE-STONE. 

My  heart  and  I  on  our  way  had  wrought, 

Till  our  desolate  journeyings  reached  the  place 

Of  doubt  and  despair,  where  all  is  nought ; 
And  I  stayed,  and  questioned  it  for  a  space, 


<*»  A  White  Night         <&•          281 

Saying  "  Heart,  where  now  shall  our  steps  be  turned, 
Now  that  mine  all  hath  been  done  and  failed? 

I  have  tried,  and  followed,  and  hungered,  and  yearned, 
And  struggled  —  and  what  hath  the  thing  availed  ? 

That  which  I  would  not,  life  brings  me  to  do  — 
How  is  it,  my  heart,  with  you  ?  " 

Said  my  heart  to  me,  "  You  have  meant  me  good, 

But  wrought  me  evil  through  evil  days ; 
You  fed  me  on  Hope's  false  smiles  for  food, 

You  have  led  me  far  in  weary  ways. 
And  I  ?     O,  never,  never  I  found 

My  sweet  delight,  which  ever  fled ; 
I  was  lonely,  I  ached  like  a  poisoned  wound 

In  your  breast,  and  I  dragged  like  lead  —  like  lead. 
Was  one  day  good,  when  all  was  done  ?  " 

And  I  said  to  my  heart,  "  Not  one." 

I  said  to  my  heart,  "  There's  a  quiet  place 

That,  though  it  is  narrow  and  dark,  indeed, 
Hath  room  for  us  in  its  straitened  space, 

Safety,  and  comfort,  and  all  we  need. 
But  he  who  enters  that  chambered  rest 

Must  leave  his  joys,  and  the  light  of  day; 
And,  wrapping  its  peace  about  his  breast, 

Give  him  to  moulder  in  dull  decay. 
Would  you  fear  that  portal,  dark  and  low  ?  " 
"  Fear !  "  said  my  heart,  «  Let  us  go  !  " 

Said  my  heart  to  me,  "  Let  us  go  to  that  place ; 

There  is  nothing  now  that  I  want  but  Peace. 
There  is  no  joy,  no  boon,  no  grace 

So  sweet  as  silence  and  soft  surcease. 
The  cruel  siren,  Hope,  may  come 

And  sing,  low  leaned  to  our  low  stone  door. 
But  your  ears  shall  be  stopped,  my  pulses  dumb ; 

She  can  pierce,  and  thrill,  and  delude  us  no  more. 
Will  you  take  me,  indeed,  to  that  rest  I  crave  ?" 

And  I  brought  my  heart  to  this  grave. 


282         «9»         The  Last  Word  ^ 

Tears  of  sympathy  —  of  pity  —  filled  my  eyes. 
Bushrod's  face  came  before  me,  sensitive,  gentle, 
appealing,  adoring. 

I  was  aware  of  building  up  a  fictitious  sentiment 
regarding  him.  But  I  felt  resentful  at  Frank's  arro- 
gant strength,  and  sympathetic  toward  poor  Bush- 
rod's  weakness  and  fineness  and  tenderness.  I  was 
strung  up  to  have  revenge  of  Frank  for  all  the  poor 
Bushrods  and  Caras,  and  weak  loving  creatures  over 
whom  he  walked  with  ruthless  feet. 

This  feeling  was  with  me  when  I  went  down  to 
the  office  the  next  afternoon.  I  knew  Frank  was 
to  be  in  Philadelphia  that  day,  so  there  was  no 
danger  of  meeting  him.  Of  Bushrod  I  had  no 
dread;  and  I  was  justified.  Bushrod's  compre- 
hension and  sympathy  were  as  gentle,  as  impersonal 
and  as  comforting  as  the  sun's  light,  or  the  kindly 
warmth  of  a  fire  to  one  lost  in  the  cold  darkness. 
It  was  so  to  me  then  and  always. 

At  first,  I  suffered  deeply  for  sleep.  But  later, 
when  this  agony  had  lived  with  me  for  a  week  of 
what  in  my  pain  I  called  idiot  days  and  lunatic 
nights,  it  was  sleep  I  feared  and  dreaded. 

For,  so  long  as  I  was  awake,  I  could  defend 
myself  from  the  worst.  But  almost  instantly  upon 
the  coming  of  sleep,  my  rebel  mind  and  heart  opened 
the  gates  of  consciousness  to  the  host  of  sweet, 
bitter,  lovely  images  and  remembrances  and  dreams 
of  Frank. 

The  dream  that  almost  slew  me  in  my  sleep  — 
that  waked  me  weeping,  or  cold  and  shaking  and 
sick,  was  only  a  dream  of  standing  dumb,  motionless 
with  despair,  looking  after  Frank,  my  fascinated 
eyes  never  leaving  him  as  he  walked  away  —  away 


«^  A  White  Night         <+>          283 

—  away  from  me  for  ever,  with  that  aggressive  roll. 
It  was  as  though  I,  the  body,  stood  there  while  the 
life  walked  thus  away  from  me,  racking  me  with 
the  agony  of  death  indeed. 

From  this  dream  I  would  start  awake,  and  He 
there  helpless  for  pain's  myrmidons  to  work  their 
will  upon  me. 

Air  drawn,  significant  against  the  dark,  there 
floated  before  my  aching  eyes  the  lovely  room,  the 
small  disordered  place,  with  the  rose  (which  could 
never  fade)  in  its  vase  upon  the  table;  with  an 
immortal  Lemuel  ambling  in  and  out,  pan  and  brush 
in  hand,  and  Frank  —  Frank  —  my  Frank  there 
waiting  for  me. 

There,  was  rest  —  there,  was  relief  —  there,  I 
might  go  and  say  one  little  word  which  would  change 
the  world  for  me. 

Night  after  night,  as  I  lay  in  the  dark,  my  eyes 
aching  for  the  sleep  which  was  denied  them,  I  was 
building  upon  the  encompassing  gloom,  this  picture 
of  the  little  studio. 

I  would  make  it  a  June  morning  there,  with 
the  cry  of  the  street  venders  and  the  rumble  of 
the  city  coming  in  at  the  open  window ;  or  the  dull, 
dripping  close  of  a  September  evening,  when  all 
within  seemed  doubly  kind  and  sheltering  and  sweet. 

But  whatever  hour  I  set  was  love's  hour,  for 
was  not  Frank  there?  I  would  see  him,  moving 
about,  carrying  my  captive  heart  at  every  step;  or 
sitting  at  his  work,  turning  to  speak  to  me,  and 
smile  upon  me. 

My  robbed  and  bankrupt  heart  remembered  the 
days  when  it  had  leaped  at  passing  that  threshold, 
had  swelled  with  such  a  passion  of  tenderness  that 


284         «f*         The  Last  Word  «f» 

I  would  fain  have  kissed  the  thumb  which  crossed 
the  shaft  of  a  newly  sharpened  pencil  he  might  hand 
me.  Now,  cold  and  spent  and  aching,  it  could  but 
build  again  and  yet  again  its  ruined  paradise. 

I  used  to  fancy  that  something  —  some  wraith  of 
what  I  felt  —  must  find  its  way  through  that  door 
and  stand  within  that  room. 

What,  I  asked  myself,  would  it  have  met  there? 
Frank  loved  me,  I  knew,  as  I  loved  him.  What  was 
it,  then,  that  kept  me  from  him?  I  would  have 
braved  death  itself  —  did  death  threaten  —  to  go  to 
him. 

But  it  was  not  death,  it  was  life  which  menaced 
me.  When  I  would  have  pictured  to  myself  the 
rapture  of  going  back,  of  bringing  in  my  poor,  piti- 
ful, rebellious  provinces,  making  my  submission, 
asking  him  to  set  his  sovereign  heel  upon  their 
necks,  of  being  held  again  in  his  arms,  his  heart 
beating  against  mine,  the  anguish  of  regret  and 
loneliness  and  longing  past,  my  lips  and  eyes  and 
heart  fed  and  comforted,  an  implacable  something 
within  reminded  me  how  brief  this  bliss  had  ever 
been;  how  almost  instantly  the  clasping  arms  be- 
came chains,  and  the  watchful  glances  of  love,  a 
jailor's  jealous  eyes. 

I  said  to  myself,  "  It  would  be  so  easy.  It  is  so 
near.  Not  much  time  has  elapsed.  Shall  I  not 
some  day  think  of  this,  aghast  to  remember  that  I 
moved  no  step  to  go  to  him  while  yet  I  might? 
Shall  I  not  pray  with  strangling  tears  for  this  oppor- 
tunity which  now  I  neglect  ?  " 

Yet  I  knew  that,  whatever  pangs  came  to  me,  I 
should  not  turn  back  now  —  that  I  must  not  —  could 
not. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

In   the   Trough  of  the   Seas 

"  One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 
I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above, 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not  ?  " 

I  WAS  at  the  end  of  everything,  it  seemed  to  me, 
when,  one  morning,  I  went  down  to  the  office,  with 
no  copy  prepared,  and  no  idea  where  any  copy  was 
to  come  from,  almost  ready  to  confess  defeat  and 
give  up. 

When  I  went  in,  Mr.  DeWitt  was  not  there.  Mr. 
Corcoran,  Miss  Bucks,  Bushrod,  and  one  or  two 
others  were  standing  talking  desultorily.  I  caught 
Frank's  name,  and  the  information  that  he  was  gone 
somewhere  on  a  sudden  summons. 

None  of  the  others  saw  me,  but  Bushrod  turned 
his  head  instantly  as  though  I  had  called  him.  He 
silently  withdrew  from  the  group.  Passing  his 
drawing-board,  from  which  he  lifted  a  handful  of 

285 


286         «f»         The  Last  Word  -^ 

sketches,  he  came  at  once  to  me,  laid  them  on  his 
desk,  at  which  I  sat,  and  bending  naturally  over 
me,  said,  quietly: 

"  Our  president  is  gone  home  to  Virginia.  They 
telegraphed  him  that  his  mother  —  my  aunt  —  is 
ill." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  with  dry  lips. 

"  I  do  not  imagine  it  is  very  serious,  or  they 
would  have  included  me  in  the  summons,"  went  on 
Bushrod,  moving  the  sketches  about  on  the  desk 
before  us.  "  But  Frank  always  fairly  worshipped 
his  mother  —  and  she  him.  Lee  —  Frank's  sister, 
Mrs.  Paige  —  would  be  sure  to  telegraph  for  him 
if  the  least  thing  were  amiss  with  Aunt  Virginia." 

I  answered  mechanically,  and  Bushrod's  kind,  low 
voice  ceased.  I  sat  there  at  the  desk  with  my  back 
to  the  others,  bent  over  some  papers;  and  all  the 
pain  and  grief  and  bereavement  of  these  past  weeks 
went  over  me  in  a  flood. 

There  was  one  longing  I  could  not  brook  —  the 
longing  to  see  the  studio  once  more.  It  came  now 
hand  in  hand  with  the  imperative  need  to  be  alone. 

Rising,  I  shut  down  the  desk,  resumed  my  gloves 
—  I  had  not  taken  off  my  hat  and  coat  —  and,  Mr. 
DeWitt  being  not  yet  arrived,  went  blindly  out,  and 
took  a  Broadway  car  up  to  Tenth  Street. 

I  went  up  all  the  flights  of  stairs  checking,  strug- 
gling, arguing  wildly  at  every  step,  and  arrived  at 
the  door,  which  I  could  not  see  for  tears,  crying 
inly,  "  Oh,  little  door  —  oh,  little,  little  door!  And 
am  I  shut  out  for  ever  from  that  before  which  you 
stand?" 

Trembling  and  cold,  I  took  out  my  key,  opened 
and  closed  the  door,  and  was  alone  in  my  poor 


«9»       In  the  Trough  of  the  Seas     «$»     287 

abandoned  heaven.  I  stood  and  looked  slowly 
about. 

Each  small  humble  thing  in  the  place  had  its 
own  knife  for  my  heart.  The  easel,  the  brushes, 
the  chair  —  ah,  his  working  jacket !  As  I  looked 
at  it,  sheer  longing  mastered  me.  "  Oh,  where  is 
he?"  I  whispered.  "My  God,  my  God!  Is  it  — 
can  it  be  true  ?  Can  I  live  and  not  see  him  ?  " 

Suddenly,  it  grew  very  dark  in  the  room.  I 
reached  out  my  arms  gropingly,  and  just  as  it 
seemed  the  floor  yielded  and  moved  in  a  sickening, 
sliding  way  under  my  feet,  the  door  opened  sharply, 
and  some  one  came  quickly  in. 

"  Bushrod !  "  I  cried ;  and  strong  arms  lifted  me 
to  something  safe  and  solid;  warm,  strong  hands 
held  mine,  and  chafed  them. 

The  darkness  swam  away,  and  I  sat  up  by  Bush- 
rod.  A  very  convulsion  of  weeping  seized  and 
shook  and  tore  me.  I  clung  to  Bushrod' s  hand, 
warm  and  kind  and  living,  my  bursting  head  was 
leaned  against  his  arm,  as  he  sat  beside  me.  He 
never  spoke  at  all,  only  sat  by  me,  and  clasped  the 
hand  that  clung  to  his. 

When  the  paroxysm  had  spent  itself  and  me,  and 
I  cowered,  weak  and  exhausted,  against  his  big 
shoulder,  I  whispered,  "How  did  you  know?" 

"  Forgive  me,  dear,  I  followed  you,"  he  answered; 
and  then  again  there  fell  a  long  silence  between  us. 

I  dared  not  begin  examining,  finding  fault,  blam- 
ing myself  that  I  accepted  this  comfort  which  might 
come  to  me  through  the  grievous  wounding  of 
another.  I  turned  in  positive  fright  from  any 
analysis  of  the  situation.  I  know  now,  when  time 
has  softened  it  all,  left  only  the  sweet  and  good, 


288         «f»         The  Last  Word  ^ 

and  stolen  away  everything  that  was  sad  and  bitter, 
that  what  led  me  astray  where  Bushrod  was  con- 
cerned was  the  having  of  a  human  creature,  a  fine, 
interesting  brilliant  man,  at  that,  and  unapproach- 
ably shy  to  many,  offered  to  me  for  my  own,  as  a 
mere  stop-gap,  to  do  with  as  I  list  —  and  no  return 
asked.  In  every  adoring  look  of  his  big  blue  eyes, 
he  gave  himself,  all  that  he  had,  all  that  he  was,  to 
my  service;  or  thanked  me  as  for  a  boon,  if  I  but 
appeared  willing  to  accept  some  portion  of  his  gift. 

The  silence  was  finally  broken  by  Bushrod  be- 
ginning, in  what  tried  to  be  a  very  cheerful  tone, 
"  You  have  been  working  too  hard,  Cara.  Don't 
you  think  you  ought  to  go  about  and  play  a  little  ?  " 

I  sat  erect  and  wiped  my  eyes.  Steadying  my 
voice  with  a  painful  effort,  "  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  am 
going  to  go  about  and  try  to  amuse  myself.  And 
then  my  work  will  be  good  for  me  again,  presently." 

Bushrod  looked  at  me  wistfully,  and  said, 
"  DeWitt  had  come  in  and  was  asking  for  this  week's 
column,  when  I  left  the  office." 

In  my  misery  I  had  forgotten  that  such  things 
as  columns  and  syndicate  services  must  go  on  in 
the  world,  however  hearts  may  ache.  I  rose  with  a 
sort  of  groan.  "  I  have  been  using  up  everything 
in  my  desk,"  I  said,  "  and  everything  in  my  head 
and  heart  so,  for  weeks,  that  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  I  don't  like  to  beg  off,  but  —  it  —  it  looks 
like  failure  just  now." 

Then  Bushrod  showed  me,  more  than  in  anything 
that  had  gone  before,  the  absolute  difference  between 
the  two  cousins.  "  I  have  something  here,"  he  hesi- 
tated, flushing,  fumbling  in  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  coat,  and  bringing  forth  finally  a  neatly  folded 


«f»       In  the  Trough  of  the  Seas     <&     289 

manuscript.  "  I  did  it  on  the  typewriter,"  he  added, 
in  some  embarrassment,  "  so  that  if  there  is  any- 
thing in  it  you  can  use,  it  will  not  need  to  be  re- 
written." 

I  opened  the  sheets  and  read  them.  I  have  said 
that  Bushrod  Floyd  was  a  brilliant  man.  He  had 
caught,  with  the  wonderful  fidelity  which  seemed 
part  of  his  absorbing  tenderness,  my  exact  spirit, 
just  my  literary  attitude.  My  "  column  "  —  which 
was  usually  two  or  three  columns  —  consisted 
weekly  of  stray  bits  of  reflection,  description,  phi- 
losophising, and  little  stories,  humourous  and  pa- 
thetic. It  ran  under  the  heading,  "  The  Heart  of 
Things,"  and  was  signed,  "  Young  Lochinvar." 

"  It  is  a  poor  parody,"  my  companion  deprecated, 
as  he  watched  me  reading.  "  I  have  been  a  sort 
of  moon,  to  absorb  your  sunny  brightness.  Surely 
now,  when  you  have  need  of  it,  I  should  be  able 
to  throw  back  a  pale  glimmer  of  your  radiance." 

The  work  in  my  shaking  fingers  was  exquisite. 
Fragmentary,  and  in  that  sense  unfinished,  it  was; 
but  the  divine  fire  was  in  it.  It  seemed  a  piteous 
thing  that  it  should  be  offered  to  go  in  a  syndicate 
service  —  offered  in  another's  name.  I  said  so  to 
Bushrod,  but  he  was  only  too  happy  and  content 
in  that  the  beautiful  things  had  pleased  me,  and 
smoothed  one  little  wrinkle  from  my  couch  of  pain. 

"  Now,  that's  settled,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "  and 
we  will  plan  about  going  some  places,  won't  we? 
We  shall  ride  and  drive  and  go  all  over  this  big  city. 
Why,  the  museums,  galleries,  theatres  —  everything 
—  everything  —  has  been  waiting  for  us  all  this 
time,  and  the  solemn  truth  is  that  I  have  been  wait- 


290         *$*         The  Last  Word  «$» 

ing  all  my  life  to  go  to  see  —  everything  —  with 
you." 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  in  amazement,  "  haven't  you 
been  to  all  those  places  —  you  who  have  lived  in 
New  York  for  years?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  softly  and  seriously,  "  never 
been  to  one  of  them  —  with  you.  They  are  all 
waiting,  fresh  and  undiscovered,  for  me  to  find  them 
and  look  at  them  through  your  eyes." 

I  can  blame  myself  now  for  accepting  this  willing 
service.  Then  it  seemed  —  he  made  it  seem  —  a 
kindness  to  him.  It  was  always  so;  he  always 
held  it  so.  He  had  never  any  concerns  of  his  own 
which  need  be  considered,  if  I  would  accept  him. 
His  cleverness  was  mine  to  divert  me,  his  abilities 
at  my  call  to  assist,  himself  to  serve  and  cheer  and 
comfort  and  solace  —  his  adoring  love  to  spread 
beneath  my  feet,  that  they  need  not  touch  the  com- 
mon earth. 

:<  You  always  seem  to  me  so  poised,  so  sufficient 
to  yourself,  such  an  independent  little  person,"  said 
the  big  man,  looking  at  me  with  his  loving  blue 
eyes.  "  Do  you  know,  I  have  been  wishing  ever 
since  I  first  met  you  that  there  would  come  a  tide 
in  your  affairs  sometime,  which  would  carry  you  off 
your  feet  a  little  —  not  drown  you  at  all,  but  just 
disturb  your  balance  a  bit,  and  that  then  it  might 
be  given  to  me  to  catch  you  quickly  and  gently,  and 
set  you  once  more  safely  on  your  feet  where  the 
tide  could  not  trouble  you.  To  think  that  such  a 
dream  as  that  should  have  come  true !  " 

Presently,  I  was  calmed  and  righted,  and  we 
prepared  to  go  down  to  the  office  together.  "  I  will 
help  you  with  these  columns  for  awhile,  if  you  will 


«$»       In  the  Trough  of  the  Seas     «^     291 

let  me,"  Bushrod  suggested,  hesitatingly,  as  we  rode 
down-town.  "  I  have  a  lot  of  odds  and  ends  knock- 
ing about  in  my  desk  and  in  my  mind,  which  you 
may  be  able  to  make  use  of  until  you  feel  more  like 
work.  My  stuff  is  just  about  good  enough  for  news- 
paper use.  It  is  a  shame  to  see  such  magnificent 
matter  as  you  have  been  giving  them  used  in  that 
way.  Do  you  never  feel  it  so?  Do  you  never  want 
to  put  it  in  more  permanent  form  —  in  a  book?" 

The  thought  of  the  big  book,  whose  last  chapters 
still  lay  in  the  table  drawer  in  the  little  studio,  made 
me  heartsick.  I  suppose  my  face  showed  it,  for 
my  companion  hastened  to  add,  contritely,  "  Do  you 
feel  that  I  am  arrogant  and  presuming  because  I  dare 
to  think  about  you  so  much  ?  Is  it  overbold  for  me 
to  be  finding  paths  for  your  feet?  Indeed,  dear,  I 
never  see  myself  walking  in  those  paths  beside  you 
—  I  am  not  such  an  idiot  as  that  —  but  I  love  to 
make  pictures  of  you  strolling  right  up  the  mountain 
of  success  to  the  temple  of  fame  with  its  big  white 
dome." 

That  such  an  atmosphere  as  this  was  balm  to  one 
who  had  been  abraded  by  the  chains  of  Frank's 
exacting,  possessive  affection,  needs  not  be  said. 
Now,  as  we  rode  down-town  together,  we  were  plan- 
ning outings  and  planning  work,  each  trying  des- 
perately to  make  believe  to  himself  and  the  other 
that  this  was  a  natural  and  reasonable  state  of 
affairs. 

"  I  have  always  been  a  lonesome  old  fellow,"  said 
Bushrod,  "  always  until  you  came.  And  now,  if 
you  are  three  days  out  of  the  office,  I  nearly  perish 
just  of  stark  loneliness  and  longing  to  have  a  sight 
of  you." 


The  Last  Word 


And  after  this  day,  I  set  out  upon  the  many  days 
and  weeks  when  Bushrod  Floyd  cared  for  and  sus- 
tained and  shielded  me  as  a  mother  might  an  ailing 
child  ;  when  he  wrote  my  column  for  me,  or  encour- 
aged and  coaxed  and  helped  me  to  write  it;  when 
he  scanned  my  appearance  with  a  guarded  solicitude 
which  caused  no  embarrassment,  managed  that 
Genevieve  should  drag  me  about  to  things  I  did 
not  wish  to  do  or  see,  yet  which  served  to  divert 
me  somewhat  from  my  misery;  when  he  developed 
a  habit  of  being  upon  imaginary  errands,  that  he 
might  go  with  me  from  the  office  to  the  car,  or 
timidly  sought  to  please  and  coax  me  into  stopping 
with  him  for  a  bit  of  lunch,  or  to  eat  some  fruit, 
pleading  that  he  was  hungry  and  could  not  eat  alone. 

I  was  drugged,  sinking  under  the  opiate  of  de- 
spair; and  he  worked  with  the  desperate  eagerness 
of  the  physician  or  nurse  who  keeps  such  an  one 
moving,  that  the  life-blood  may  not  stagnate. 

That  I  was  never  afraid  nor  ashamed  of  what  I 
accepted  from  him  is  not  true;  and  yet  he  made 
it  so  natural,  so  simple,  so  inevitable,  that  I  felt 
less  uneasiness  than  would  have  seemed  possible.  It 
was  generally  a  pretext  of  work,  or  exercise,  or  some 
outing  that  brought  us  together,  and  it  was  only 
occasionally  that  he  said  things  which  showed  me 
the  enormity  of  my  fault. 

I  remember  once,  when  he  had  made  such  a 
speech,  his  looking  round  at  my  face  of  dismay  and 
saying  to  me,  "  Can  you  be  patient  with  a  man  who 
is  sometimes  waked  in  the  night  with  the  dew  of 
fear  upon  his  face  —  fear  that  he  may  not  hold  such 
daily  companionship,  such  favour  as  you  are  now 
giving  him?  Forgive  me.  Could  I  be  more  of  a 


«$>       In  the  Trough  of  the  Seas     «$»     293 

dolt  than  to  admit  that  to  you  ?  It  sounds  as  though 
I  felt  you  were  promising  me  something,  when,  God 
knows,  my  only  longing  is  that  you  will  allow  me  to 
give  all,  and  never  trouble  your  dear  head  about  it, 
except  to  think  how  kind  you  have  been  to  me  in 
receiving  it." 

I  was  not  altogether  blinded  by  my  own  suffer- 
ing. I  knew  I  was  building  ill,  and  tried  feebly  to 
demur,  to  withdraw  a  little,  but  it  was  long,  and 
long  too  late. 

When  I  began  to  speak,  Bushrod's  eyes  dilated 
upon  me  with  love  and  pain  and  fear.  "  No,  no, 
Cara,"  he  protested,  "you  are  wholly  free;  no 
shadow  of  a  tie  or  obligation  binds  you  anywhere. 
You  need  me  a  little  now,  and  it  is  my  only  happi- 
ness. To  lose  this  privilege  of  seeing  and  being 
near  and  serving  you  —  I  —  I  cannot  —  well,  there 
is  no  need,  you  know,  dear. 

"  What  I  feel  is  not  the  desire  of  a  man  blind 
from  his  birth,  who  longs  for  the  sunshine,  the 
precious  gift  of  sight.  That  might  have  been  the 
way  before  you  came.  Now,  to  lose  my  chance  of 
doing  something  for  you,  and  being  with  you,  would 
be  to  endure  the  agony  of  one  who  had  loved  the 
light  and  all  it  gave,  and  who  has  the  terror  of 
seeing  it  taken  away,  and  his  soul  left  in  a  darkness 
that  is  all  he  will  ever  have." 

"  Bushrod,"  I  said,  "  I  am  —  I  suppose  I  am  not 
just  well,  and  I  am  very  unhappy.  You  —  nobody 
knows  or  understands  as  you  do;  nobody  else  can 
help  or  —  Bushrod,  do  you  think  I  may  —  I 
ought  —  " 

"  Indeed,  I  know  you  may,  and  ought,"  he  de- 
clared, cheerily.  "  Let's  be  done  with  all  such  talk, 


294        «*»         The  Last  Word  «f> 

and  go  on  to  our  work  and  play,  accepting  what  the 
gods  send  daily.  We  shall  all  —  all  —  be  rich  and 
famous  and  happy  by  and  by." 

So  I  said  no  more,  and  Bushrod's  love  and  care, 
his  belief  and  help  and  encouragement,  led  me  back 
to  my  life  and  its  labours  and  opportunities,  as  a 
mother's  hand  leads  a  tottering  little  child. 

I  went  down  to  the  office  one  day,  and  was  re- 
ceived by  Mr.  DeWitt  with  unexpected  geniality. 

"  These  last  things  of  yours  are  superb,  Miss 
West,"  he  said.  "  I  really  think  they  are  the  best 
work  you  have  done  since  you  came  to  New  York." 

Bushrod  Floyd  was  standing  by  his  desk,  and  he 
stole  a  furtive,  humourous  look  at  me,  as  of  a  de- 
tected culprit.  I  had  opened  my  lips  to  tell  Mr. 
DeWitt  the  origin  of  most  of  the  brilliance  in  my 
recent  productions,  when  Bushrod,  evidently  expect- 
ing something  of  the  sort,  hastened  to  praise  it  in 
such  glowing  terms  (all  the  while  looking  at  me  with 
side-glances  of  defiance),  that  I  was  estopped  from 
giving  any  information  on  our  mutual  work. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

A  Spartan   Three 

"  You  are  dying  for  me,  and  I  am  dying  for  another." 

IT  had  always  been  that  when  I  was  heartsick  and 
well-nigh  despairing,  I  knew  of  no  method  by  which 
I  might  help  myself  except  to  build  up  the  health  of 
that  portion  of  my  soul  which  is  visible  and  palpable 
—  my  body.  My  cure  for  a  heartache  was  a  long 
walk,  or  a  bit  of  vigorous  exercise  taken,  for  pref- 
erence, with  agreeable  companionship. 

Despite  all  the  difference  between  Genevieve  and 
myself,  all  the  wide  and  marked  divergences  of  taste, 
feeling  and  belief,  there  was  one  meeting-ground 
upon  which  our  souls  could  fraternise. 

Whether  she  thought  as  I  did  about  the  value  of 
exercise  or  no,  it  is  certain  that  an  unquiet  heart 
drove  her  forth  as  it  drove  me,  and  when  we  found 
ourselves  owning  a  bit  of  coincident  leisure  we  went 
to  a  gymnasium  of  which  she  knew,  and  where  she 
was  undergoing  a  very  complicated  "  course,"  or  we 
took  long  walks. 

To  the  company  of  these  latter,  Bushrod  Floyd 
was,  upon  his  diffidently  put  forward  plea,  admitted. 
He  would  fain  have  given  no  reason  for  his  desire 
to  join  us  "  whenever  we  could  put  up  with  him ;  " 
but  Genevieve  having  demanded  one  in  her  usual 

295 


296         «^         The  Last  Word  <f» 

inexorable  fashion,  he  stated  that  sitting  all  day 
over  a  drawing-board  was  making  a  second  Fat 
Boy  of  him,  and  it  was  a  question  between  this  and 
banting. 

So  we  three  poor  souls,  each  with  his  little  fox 
gnawing  at  heart,  bearing  the  nips  as  best  we  might, 
covering  the  pain  with  such  smiles  and  jests  as  we 
could,  tramped  long  miles  together. 

Did  you  ever  consider  the  enormous  psychological 
significance  of  certain  very  simple  actions?  Take 
for  instance  the  looking  out  at  windows,  and  the 
going  upon  long,  aimless  walks.  Who  that  is  content 
or  happy  ever  falls  into  either  of  these  practices? 

It  is  generally  the  miserable  woman,  who  may 
not  go  forth  to  accost  Fate,  who  must  sit  at  home 
till  the  event  comes  battering  at  her  door  with  its 
great  brutal  bludgeon,  who  haunts  casements,  who 
goes  from  one  sill  to  another  and  gazes  drearily 
forth  to  behold,  if  she  may,  the  solution  of  the 
dilemma  approaching. 

As  for  aimless  walks,  women,  too,  take  most  of 
them.  There  are  other  methods  of  relief  in  action 
open  to  men. 

We  were,  in  spite  of  our  incongruity,  a  congenial 
trio,  agreed  upon  more  matters  than  merely  a  state 
of  mind  which  made  long  walks  salutary. 

We  found,  as  the  acquaintance  ripened,  much  to 
love  and  admire  in  each  other.  We  saw,  now,  that 
none  of  the  people  at  the  office  knew  Miss  Bucks. 

Bushrod  and  I  discussed  together  the  astonishing 
fact  that  Genevieve  wore  rubbers,  and  a  trailing 
skirt  which  she  carried  tightly  gripped,  and  so  raised 
as  to  impede  every  step.  We  agreed  that  such  a 
course  upon  her  part  destroyed  that  cherished  one 


«$»  A  Spartan  Three         «$»         297 

of  our  illusions  which  concerned  the  wearing  by 
Englishwomen  of  thick-soled  shoes  and  short  skirts. 

"  Miss  Bucks,"  he  ventured  one  day,  "  I  thought 
English  ladies  didn't  wear  rubbers.  I  imagined 
they  called  them  galoshes,  and  scarcely  stooped  to 
own  a  pair." 

"  Galoshes ! "  she  returned  sharply,  rounding 
those  mild  light  eyes  at  both  of  us.  "  Pray,  why 
should  I  call  gum  overshoes  galoshes?  And  why 
should  I  not  wish  to  keep  my  boots  tidy,  and  my 
feet  dry,  because  I  am  an  Englishwoman  ?  " 

And  he  hastily  admitted  that  there  was  no  suffi- 
cient reason. 

"  Fancy !  "  she  continued  to  mutter,  "  galoshes !  " 

I  am  not  a  fish,  like  Genevieve;  I  must  come  up 
to  blow ;  and  I  had,  in  the  midst  of  my  misery,  spells 
of  wild  gaiety  —  almost  hilarity.  That  I  was  trying 
to  her  at  these  seasons,  I  well  know;  but  I  think, 
too,  that  I  must  have  done  her  good  by  diverting  her 
mind  from  one  unresponsive  young  man. 

As  for  Bushrod,  it  was  worth  while  to  counter- 
feit high  spirits,  only  to  see  how  absolute  was  his 
content  on  such  occasions. 

There  were  moments  when  I  was  even  exuberant 
enough  to  forget  myself  and  whistle.  Of  course 
this  only  happened  two  or  three  times,  away  up  in 
the  remote  solitudes  of  Harlem,  or  on  some  secluded, 
pensive,  and  policemanless  pathway  in  the  park.  I 
always  stopped  it  the  instant  I  realised  what  I  was 
doing;  for  though  Genevieve  commanded  herself 
nobly  I  was  entirely  alive  to  her  anguish  on  such 
occasions. 

One  day,  having  caught  myself  at  this  "  exces- 


298         «f»        The  Last  Word  «$» 

sively  ungenteel  "  performance,  and  stopped  with  in- 
stant contrition,  I  inquired  earnestly : 

"  Miss  Bucks,  what  on  earth  do  you  suppose  you 
would  do  if  I  should  ever  be  able  to  sufficiently  forget 
myself  —  or  forget  New  York  —  to  indulge  in  a 
real  Yazoo  yell  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  something,"  returned  Genevieve 
abruptly,  and  with  a  preternaturally  wise  side  glance 
at  Bushrod.  "  The  only  really  wild  and  alarming 
things  I've  ever  observed  in  you  are  your  threats! 
In  the  matter  of  actual  behaviour,  there  is  very  little 
really  discreditable  about  you."  And  she  looked 
us  both  straight  in  the  face  with  the  utmost  bland- 
ness. 

While  we  hesitated,  our  glances  inquiring  wildly 
of  each  other  if  it  were  possible  Genevieve  could 
mean  to  be  sarcastic  or  clever,  and  if  not,  what  then  ? 
she  continued,  "  But  a  Yazoo  yell  —  what  is  that  ?  " 

I  examined  her  face  and  her  tone  of  voice  criti- 
cally, decided  that  my  suspicion  was  a  mad  one,  and 
replied : 

"  A  Yazoo  yell,  Miss  Bucks,  is  not  a  thing  you 
describe,  you  just  do  it.  Shall  I  show  you  how  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you.     I  —  " 

"  Miss  Bucks,"  I  continued,  feelingly,  "  did  you 
never  yell  at  all  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  certainly,  as  a  small  child,  I  used 
to  be  quite  a  little  savage,  I'm  sure.  I  had  no 
sisters,  so  I  ran  rather  wild  with  my  four  hobble- 
dehoy brothers.  I  remember  that  when  we  played 
*  Red  Indian '  we  howled  fearfully." 

"  Well,  and  weren't  you  much  happier  and  health- 
ier for  it,"  I  pursued,  intensely,  "  than  you've  ever 


«9»  A  Spartan  Three         «$>         299 

been  since  the  trammels  of  social  usage  were  fastened 
upon  you,  and  —  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense  1 "  broke  in  Genevieve,  briskly. 
"  I  suppose  she  is  chaffing,  as  usual ;  isn't  she,  Mr. 
Floyd?  Certainly  I  was  a  happy  little  heathen,  as 
a  youngster ;  and  certainly  I  loved  bread  and  treacle, 
and  to  race  about  and  howl.  And  now  I'm  a  moder- 
ately successful  and  discontented  woman,  and  no 
longer  care  for  treacle  or  howling;  but  I  see  no 
direct  connection." 

"Yet,  it  is  there!"  I  cried,  feelingly.  "I  tell 
you  I  have  a  theory  on  the  subject." 

("I  do  not  doubt  it,"  murmured  Genevieve.  "  If 
you  had  not,  it  would  be  the  first  subject  you  failed 
to  fit  with  a  theory.") 

I  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  There  was  no 
denying  that  Genevieve  was  blossoming  out.  What 
was  the  developing  influence,  I  wondered  —  the 
DeWitt  affair,  or  our  stimulating  society?  But  I 
continued,  with  dignity : 

"  My  belief  is,  Miss  Bucks,  that  yelling  —  a  small 
amount,  at  least,  of  daily  yelling  —  subserves  some 
excellent  purpose  in  the  physical  economy,  promotes 
some  important  life  function;  and  that  in  the  man 
or  woman  who  never  yells,  who  never  utters  a 
hearty  shout,  something  droops  and  pines  into 
harmful  desuetude.  I  am  convinced  that  no  tribe 
or  community  of  people  can  entirely  abjure  and  cease 
from  all  yelling  without  paying  the  natural  penalty. 
Indeed,  I  am  at  this  moment,  in  my  own  proper 
person,  an  example  —  a  living  illustration  —  of  the 
evil  effects  which  follow  the  sudden  and  complete 
breaking  off  of  this  joyous  and  healthful  habit.  It 
has  now  been  months  —  months  —  since  I  uttered 


300         «f»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

anything  approaching  a  hearty,  spirit-lifting  yell; 
and  I  tell  you  I  feel  it. 

"  I  feel  it;  and  I  would  have  in  all  cities  —  just 
as  I  would  have  baths  and  gymnasiums  —  space 
devoted  to  this  cheerful,  agreeable,  and  important 
exercise;  yelleries,  you  might  call  them,  or  shouta- 
toriums,  attractive  places  where  one  might  go  to 
shout  as  a  simple  health  measure,  or  to  have  a  yell 
with  a  friend,  with  no  suspicion  of  the  ridiculous 
attaching  to  one,  but  all  in  seemliness  and  as  a 
matter  of  course." 

I  saw  Genevieve  screwing  up  her  mouth,  prepara- 
tory to  giving  me  a  good  setting  down.  I  decided 
I  would  not  have  any  setting  down  that  day;  so  I 
continued  in  a  much  louder  and  more  enthusiastic 
tone, 

"  Why,  this  thing  develops  as  one  considers  it. 
It  unrolls,  it  opens  up  undreamed-of  possibilities. 
Why  not  yelling  contests  with  judges  and  a  crowd, 
like  the  Olympian  games,  you  know  ?  " 

And  Bushrod  added,  "  Why  not  progressive  yell- 
ing matches,  with  prizes  and  consolation  prizes  ?  " 

Genevieve  was  silent,  but  not  sulky  —  she  never 
sulks.  She  simply  confessed  herself  beaten,  and  we 
went  on  amicably  to  other  things. 

"  Miss  Bucks !  "  I  announced  suddenly  one  day, 
when  we  were  sloshing  around  in  what  she  told 
me  was  very  bad  form  and  high  spirits  in  that  gym- 
nasium where  we  do  a  morning's  work  twice  a  week, 
"  Miss  Bucks !  I  know  now  why  fellows  swagger 
who  cultivate  their  muscles  instead  of  their  brains." 

"  Because  they  are  usually  that  sort  of  fellows," 
returned  Genevieve,  with  her  strange,  heavy,  British 
coldness.  It  was  always  startling  to  me  to  see  Gene- 


«^>  A  Spartan  Three         «f»         301 

vieve  so  cold  mentally  when  she  was  so  warmed  up 
physically  —  her  face  flushed  like  a  great  pink  cab- 
bage rose,  her  pale,  tan-coloured  eyes  fairly  glowing 
with  red-brown  light.  When  the  blood's  in  my  head 
like  that,  whether  from  dancing,  or  racing  my  horse 
or  my  wheel,  swinging  clubs  or  —  no  matter  — 
whatever  brought  it  there,  when  it's  there  like  that, 
why  I  could  kill  people,  or  love  'em  to  death,  or 
die  to  save  'em. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  it  is  because  they  are  that  sort  of 
fellows.  I  don't  wonder,  nor  blame  them  a  bit.  I 
smile,  to  myself,  every  time  I  see  one  of  them,  and 
I  say,  '  Yes,  I  know.  So  would  I,  if  only  I  dared.' 
It  is  being  a  woman  and  having  to  dress  as  women 
dress,  alone,  that  deters  me.  The  impulse  —  the 
good  will  —  is  there." 

"  Yes,  I  fear  it  really  is,"  put  in  Genevieve, 
primly. 

"  Yes,  you're  precious  right,"  I  retorted.  "  I  tell 
you,  when  the  blood  runs  through  my  veins  laughing 
and  singing  and  whistling,  the  limitations  of  civi- 
lisation, social  conventionalities,  may  —  and  do  — 
oblige  me  to  look  and  walk  and  speak  demurely, 
but  —  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  they  don't  seem  to  oblige  you  to  —  " 
began  Genevieve,  but  I  wralked  right  over  her. 
"  But  it  is  no  more  than  an  outward  seeming,  an 
enforced  tribute  to  the  powers  that  be.  My  body 
may  walk,  but  my  spirit  dances;  the  flesh  may 
deport  itself  civilly  and  discourse  seemly,  according 
to  the  canons  of  society ;  but  the  soul  chucks  its  hat 
on  the  back  of  its  head,  its  hands  in  its  pockets, 
kicks  up  its  heels,  and  shouts  aloud !  " 

Genevieve  opened  her  mouth  to  say  something.    I 


302         «f»         The  Last  Word  «9» 

knew  by  experience  what  it  would  be  like,  so  I  burst 
in  ahead  of  her.  "  Good  heavens !  Miss  Bucks,  is  it 
common  among  English  people  to  be  so  absolutely 
fishlike?  Or  is  it  only  a  personal,  not  a  national 
peculiarity?  S'death,  and  zounds,  and  gadzooks! 
I'd  rather  suffer;  I'd  rather  have  ups  and  downs, 
and  awful  times,  and  —  and  —  fits  —  than  to  be 
such  a  positive  fish!" 

Genevieve  said  one  single  word.  This  word  was 
"  Humph !  "  and  she  looked  so  significant  that  I 
felt  a  little  uncertain  of  my  ground. 

But  to  return  to  this  business  of  physical  activity. 

"  I  long  ago  discovered,"  I  told  Genevieve,  "  that 
circulation  —  enough  circulation  —  is,  seriously,  the 
remedy  for  all  the  ills  of  life.  I  know  that  it  will 
cure  indigestion,  headache,  heartache,  despondency, 
despair!  And,  I  dare  say,  hydrophobia,  leprosy, 
pessimism,  remorse,  bankruptcy,  and  annihilation, 
if  it  were  only  given  a  fair  trial.  I  am  convinced  in 
my  own  mind  that  it  was  the  Nepenthe  of  the  clever 
Greeks,  that  potion  which  rocked  asleep  all  sorrow 
and  disappointment,  and  gave  the  sick  and  wounded 
heart  health  and  peace.  And  it  was  their  Lethe,  as 
well ;  the  pulsing  stream  in  whose  renewing  currents 
all  past  griefs  and  failures  are  forgot,  all  future 
joy  and  success  are  made  possible." 

"  It  must  indeed  be  so,  if  you  say  so,"  she  replied, 
"  for  I  have  noticed  that  you  seem  to  know  a  vast 
deal  about  ancient  matters,  rather  especially  the 
Greeks  and  other  classical  persons  and  things." 

This  was  little  short  of  brutal  on  Genevieve's  part, 
in  view  of  my  very  limited  and,  so  to  say,  third- 
hand  acquaintance  with  the  classics,  and  the  fact 


«$»  A  Spartan  Three         «9»         303 

that  she,  a  Girton  girl,  had  a  rich  and  ample  knowl- 
edge thereof.  But  I  could  not  blame  her. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  at  least  know  by  actual  per- 
sonal experiment  that  when  you  have  kicked  for 
five  minutes  at  a  bit  of  paper  stuck  up  on  the  wall 
at  about  the  height  of  your  ear,  hitting  it  one  time 
out  of  ten,  losing  your  shaky  balance,  at  an  average, 
every  third  kick,  and  falling  back  in  fits  of  laughter 
on  to  a  mattress  humanely  placed  there  for  the  pur- 
pose, until  every  pulse  in  your  body  bounds,  you 
don't  care  a  fillip  whether  the  wind's  in  the  east 
or  west ;  and  you  wonder  with  good-natured  amuse- 
ment what  thing  it  was  —  what  little,  sneezy,  con- 
temptible thing  —  that  hurt  and  fretted  you  so  yes- 
terday. You  would  not  wish  to  hit  the  world  too 
hard,  for  fear  you  might  hurt  it;  but  you  want  it 
to  keep  a  mighty  civil  tongue  in  its  head,  and  do 
you  about  right." 

"  You  mean  that  you  feel  that  way,"  corrected 
Genevieve,  still  fishily  cold. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  do,"  I  admitted.  "I  can't 
reasonably  mean  that  you  do." 

But  despite  Genevieve's  lack  of  enthusiasm  — 
which  lack  I  am  sure  she  exaggerated  when  she 
discovered  that  it  afflicted  me  —  she  continued  to  be 
to  me  an  interesting  and,  in  some  sense,  congenial 
companion,  because  she  was  simplicity  and  genuine- 
ness incarnate ;  and  then  she  was  so  fine  in  all  these 
physical  activities,  and,  in  her  queer,  depressed  way, 
so  perennially  fond  of  them,  so  ready  for,  and  inter- 
ested in  them. 

Miss  Salem's  New  York  house  was  now  in  the 
hands  of  repairers,  renovators,  decorators,  and  fur- 
nishers, and  she  had  been  for  some  weeks  at  one  of 


304         «£»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

the  most  splendid  of  the  up-town  hotels.  Here 
she  invited  me  to  spend  a  week  with  her.  I  lived 
that  week,  quite  soothed  and  steadied  and  at  my 
best  —  so  it  seemed  to  me  —  in  her  pleasing  society, 
during  my  leisure  time.  Miss  Salem's  aura  was 
certainly  a  benign  one,  if  that  is  a  proper  character- 
isation of  an  aura. 

To  my  mind,  the  great  modern  American  hotel 
is  a  place  of  rest,  comfort,  and  beauty,  with  its  big 
spaces,  and  its  consummate  perfection  of  service. 
There,  if  you  please,  one  might  think  and  write. 

A  repose  like  that  which  dwells  in  the  groves  of 
the  oracle  pervades  its  private  rooms,  back  of  thick 
stone  or  brick  walls,  admitting  upon  the  one  side 
cnly  a  diminished  echo  of  the  city's  noise  through 
deeply  embrasured,  heavily  draped  windows;  and, 
on  the  other,  abutting  upon  the  beautiful  silence,  the 
dim,  calm  twilight  and  spacious  airiness  of  the  long, 
velvet-floored  corridors. 

It  was  here  in  Miss  Salem's  great  palace  of  a 
hotel  that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  cunning  con- 
trivance called  the  teleseme,  a  glorification  and  blos- 
soming of  the  sober  little  electric  bell.  It  was  a 
very  wonderful  thing,  I  then  thought.  Its  benignant 
face  beamed  upon  me  from  its  station  on  the  wall 
beside  my  door.  At  first  I  was  only  interested,  then 
a  bit  incredulous,  and  finally,  too  happy  for  words. 

I  read  attentively  all  around  its  dial,  whereon 
are  printed  the  names  of  nearly  all  the  things  a  sick 
or  weary  body  might  desire.  There  were  set  forth 
food  and  refreshment,  both  bodily  and  mental. 
Sweet  waters  and  bitter  waters  of  all  sorts  were 
there,  one  might  say,  suggested.  Salutary  draughts 
and  sinful  intoxicants,  by  the  pint  or  quart,  were 


*f^  A  Spartan  Three         «£>         305 

offered,  with  great  number  and  variety  of  persons  to 
do  almost  any  bidding.  I  read  the  directions,  too, 
printed  up  strongly  as  they  were  in  red,  instructing 
the  guest  to  turn  the  crank  until  its  end  rests  over 
the  name  of  the  thing  he  desires,  then  press  the 
button  and  the  order  will  be  filled  at  once. 

When  I  read  these  directions  the  rapturous  antici- 
pation of  Aladdin  flooded  my  fancy.  "  Now  —  oh, 
now  —  shall  I  have  my  heart's  dear  wish ! "  I 
thought.  "  They  can  not  have  omitted  so  important 
a  thing.  Why,  it  is  what  we  all  want ;  the  uncom- 
municated  yearning  which  drives  us  all,  restless,  un- 
satisfied seekers  up  and  down  the  earth.  Where  all 
wants  have  been  so  thoughtfully  anticipated,  they 
will  never  have  overlooked  the  great  want.  "Pis 
but  to  turn  the  crank,  press  the  button,  a  moment 
of  waiting,  and  I  shall  kiss  the  lips  of  my  desire." 

Again  I  read  round  and  round  that  dial  that  held 
so  much  I  did  not  want;  but,  ah,  it  was  not  there! 
And  in  the  face  of  this  bitter  disappointment,  but- 
tered toast  seemed  a  mockery  and  sherry  cobbler 
little  better  than  an  insult. 

"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child !  "  No,  it  wasn't 
there  any  more  than  it  has  ever  been  anywhere  else. 
Or  -  "  But,  no,  I  will  not  do  that,"  I  declared,  "  I 
will  not  accuse  and  discredit  and  cripple  the  future 
-  my  beautiful,  beautiful,  capable,  copious,  fruitful, 
omnipotent,  omnibus  future,  where  I  know  that  '  it,' 
and  all  other  good  things,  are  waiting  eagerly  for 
me  to  be  brave  enough  and  good  and  deserving 
enough  to  come  and  get  them.  And  (to  be  honest 
and  just)  I  understand  that  if  what  I  thought  I 
wanted  wasn't  printed  on  the  teleseme's  face,  and 
ready  for  me  at  the  other  end  of  the  line,  it  is  because 


306         «9>         The  Last  Word  «$» 

the  prizes  and  rewards  are  (very  properly)  not  dis- 
tributed before  the  races  are  half  run,  or  the  tasks 
half  accomplished." 

On  Friday  my  weekly  "  stunt "  was  due.  There 
was  no  Bushrod  to  help  me  out;  he  had  been  sent 
away  by  the  house,  on  a  business  matter,  at  the 
time  I  came  to  Miss  Salem.  And  Thursday  evening 
found  me  alone  in  our  beautiful  apartments,  the  re- 
luctant entertainer  of  an  uproarious  and  cataclysmal 
headache,  writing  away  at  my  story,  a  la  Catherine 
—  I  cannot  remember  just  what  Catherine  —  sign- 
ing —  her  will,  I  believe  —  some  state  document, 
anyway,  propped  up  with  pillows  and  things. 

I  had  got  into  the  midst  of  a  sentence  where 
various  parts  of  speech  fought  hand  to  hand,  verbs, 
substantives,  and  adjectives,  all  in  one  furious  and 
unseemly  scrimmage,  when  the  door  opened  softly, 
and  Genevieve  walked  in.  She  shut  the  door  behind 
her,  came  over  and  looked  down  at  me  quietly,  and 
remarked,  "  I  knew  it !  " 

"  How?  "  I  inquired  seriously,  grabbing  my  head 
between  my  two  hands  and  looking  up  at  her  with 
a  bloodshot  eye. 

"  Oh,  I  simply  know  things  sometimes,"  she  re- 
turned, smiling  —  for  once  Genevieve  smiled  and 
I  —  I  could  not. 

"  Genevieve,"  I  began,  and  Miss  Bucks  started  a 
little,  and  looked  keenly  at  me;  "  Genevieve,"  and 
my  head  crashed  like  smitten  cymbals  —  "  this  pic- 
ture you  may  not  recognise.  It  is  Catherine  What's- 
her-name,  signing  her  what-you-call-it.  It  resembles 
a  Chinese  play,  in  that  only  the  chief  actor  is  on  the 
stage.  All  the  scenery  and  accessories  are  left  to 
the  imagination  of  the  audience  —  that's  you,  you 


«$»  A  Spartan  Three         «$»         307 

know.  So  the  weeping  lords  and  ladies,  the  attend- 
ant vassals,  the  impossible  greyhound  and  cataleptic 
priest  may  be  filled  in  to  your  fancy.  They  are  at 
the  other  end  of  the  teleseme,  Genevieve  —  you  see 
the  teleseme  up  there  —  along  with  the  Hot  Waffles, 
Cold  Turkey,  the  Waters  of  Pleasantness  and  the 
antidotal  Waters  of  Bitterness,  the  Letter,  the  Time 
of  Day,  the  Private  Maid,  and  Milk  Punch.  Oh, 
Genevieve,  Genevieve!  My  head  must  inevitably 
explode.  But  I'm  going  to  get  out  this  week's  copy, 
alive  or  dead  —  Oh !  " 

Miss  Bucks  made  me  no  immediate  reply.  She 
looked  long  at  me  with  what  I  must  describe  as 
a  sort  of  affectionate  contempt.  Then  she  gathered 
the  litter  of  books,  papers,  "  copy "  and  writing 
tools  off  the  bed,  smoothed  out  its  convulsed  and 
distraught  draperies,  straightened  me  up,  shaded  all 
the  light  off  me,  took  into  her  own  hands  the  clip 
and  pencil  with  which  I  had  been  wrestling  and, 
sitting  down  beside  me,  remarked  in  a  quiet,  reflec- 
tive voice : 

'  You  poor  thing,  you  are  partially  crazy  with 
your  headache;  but  I  fancy  it  will  not  make  any 
difference.  So,  to  put  it  in  your  own  chaste  style, 
'  Fire  away  with  your  stuff/  if  Mr.  DeWitt  must 
have  it  to-morrow.  I  will  take  it  down  in  shorthand 
and  type  it  for  you." 

I  shut  my  eyes,  and  fired  away  promptly  and  con- 
tinuously, thanking  heaven  for  this  kind  heart,  these 
capable  hands  and  wits. 

When  I  made  an  end,  Miss  Bucks  laid  down  the 
finished  work,  came  and  bathed  my  head,  and  did 
it  up  soothingly  in  cool  wet  things.  Then  she  ob- 
served, 


308         «f»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

"  It  is  very  singular.  You  went  through  all  that 
stuff  smartly  enough.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  any 
madder  than  most  of  the  things  you  write.  Yet, 
when  I  came  in,  you  were  —  well,  you  didn't  really 
know  me.  How  are  you  feeling  now  ?  " 

I  blushed,  and  my  first  impulse  was  to  equivocate. 
But  I  strangled  it,  and  taking  the  cool,  kind  hand 
upon  my  head  in  my  own,  I  said,  "  No,  Miss  Bucks, 
I  knew  you  perfectly.  It  was  only  that,  in  the  dis- 
traction of  this  deafening,  blinding  pain,  I  inad- 
vertently called  you  by  the  name  I  gave  you  the  first 
time  I  ever  saw  you.  I  "  —  and  I  looked  up  reso- 
lutely —  "I  always  call  you  Genevieve,  to  myself. 
You  never  were  anything  but  Genevieve  to  me;  " 
and  I  paused  anxiously. 

"  Fancy !  "  she  commented,  but  very  gently ;  then 
laughed  a  sweet  little  full-throated  laugh.  "  How 
odd !  But  it  is  quite  like  you.  I  don't  mind  in  the 
least,  you  know." 

She  sat  there  for  some  time,  holding  my  hand, 
bathing  my  head.  And  slowly,  slowly  quieted  down 
the  uproar  and  anguish  inside  my  skull.  When  it 
got  to  be  that  I  could  talk  with  some  ease,  I  said, 

"  If  you'll  sit  a  bit  nearer  here,  I'll  tell  you  a 
little  thing  which  runs  in  my  mind." 

Genevieve  drew  her  chair  closer  and  leaned  her 
head  down  toward  me,  and  I  began :  "I  met  this 
morning,  in  a  little  square  just  east  of  us  here  — 
as  I  have  several  times  met  it  before  —  a  ready- 
made  figure,  a  simile,  that  could  be  used  advanta- 
geously to  point  a  variety  of  morals  or  adorn 
almost  any  sort  of  tale.  (I'm  going  to  use  it 
presently  to  illustrate  and  adorn  these  existing  cir- 
cumstances, so  let  me  pursue  my  own  way.)" 


«f»  A  Spartan  Three         «$»         309 

Genevieve  pressed  my  hand  in  silent  assent,  and 
I  went  on.  "  It  was  —  well,  you  might  call  it  a 
peregrinating  parable.  It  consists  of  two  little 
boys,  or  girls  (it  was  girls  this  morning)  with  their 
arms  around  each  other,  and  sharing  a  pair  of  roller 
skates,  each  one  wearing  a  skate  and  holding  up  the 
skateless  foot.  Now,  would  it  not  serve  admirably 
to  illustrate  a  sermon  on  Free  Trade  and  Reci- 
procity? As  a  clincher  to  a  matrimonial  homily, 
how  could  it  be  beaten?  Why,  it  would  make  the 
very  jewel  of  a  '  Husbands  and  Wives  '  tract !  I 
shall  offer  this  figure  to  preachers,  free  trade  orators, 
and  writers  on  the  ideal  marriage,  to  all  and  singular 
of  whom  I  am  sure  it  might  be  serviceable.  In  fact, 
when  one  thinks  upon  the  matter,  its  application  is 
almost  unlimited.  What  are  we  all,  dear  Gen  —  " 

"  Genevieve,"  she  prompted,  smiling. 

"  Well,  dear  Genevieve,  what  are  we  all  but 
children  with  one  skate  on?  I  do  not  believe  it  has 
ever  been  given  to  man  to  have  two.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve there  is  —  or  ever  was  —  a  soul  of  us,  on  this 
big  bridge,  stretching  from  the  darkness  of  the 
Was  into  the  darkness  of  the  To  Be,  that  wears 
more  skates  than  one  (and  quite  commonly  a  bad 
corn  on  the  other  foot,  into  the  bargain),  and  we 
need  some  one  on  that  off  side,  the  strongest  and 
best  of  us.  We  can  skate  along  a  little  while,  as 
these  children  can,  we  can  frolic  about  and  disport 
ourselves,  that  other  foot  with  its  bad,  bad  corn 
held  safely  up;  but  when  we  begin  to  wabble,  as 
the  most  skilful  of  us  is  bound  to  wabble  sooner  or 
later,  the  one-skatedness  of  us  is  ruthlessly  exposed, 
and  there  is  an  instant  reaching  out  for  help  on  that 
off  side." 


310         «$»         The  Last  Word  «£» 

Genevieve  did  not  say  a  word  about  my  oddness, 
or  my  queer  talk.  She  pressed  my  hand  again, 
and  just  murmured,  "  Yes,  I  understand." 

"  You  know,"  I  went  on,  "  I  thought  if  anybody 
ever  did  have  two  skates  on,  it  was  I ;  and  it  was  my 
religion  to  stand  on  my  own  feet,  and  depend  upon 
nobody  and  nothing  else  than  myself.  I  would  have 
declared  any  day  that  at  least  my  feet  had  a  skate 
apiece.  And  now  look  at  me.  I  —  " 

"Oh,  come  now,  nonsense!"  she  interrupted, 
cheerily,  "  you  have  two  good  skates  on  two  good 
feet,  and  all  the  skill  and  courage  to  use  them.  You 
forget  that  even  people  so  equipped  do  fall  down 
sometimes,  or  are  knocked  over.  They  simply  get 
up  and  laugh,  and  skate  on  again." 

When  Genevieve  had  her  hat  and  gloves  on,  ready 
to  go,  she  inquired,  "  Now,  where  is  the  finished 
matter  you  wish  me  to  take  down  along  with  this  I 
have?" 

"  It  is  across  in  Miss  Salem's  room,"  I  answered. 
"  You  can  go  through  the  sitting-room,  here,  and 
get  it  off  her  table  —  she  is  out." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Genevieve,  "  at  the 
Authors'  Club  reception." 

"  And  she's  going  to  see  that  wonderful  ball 
before  she  comes  home,  too,"  I  added. 

Genevieve  fetched  the  big  envelope,  and  stood 
turning  it  over  absently  in  her  hands.  Finally  she 
suggested,  with  her  gaze  fastened  upon  the  manu- 
script, "  You  like  her  very  much,  don't  you?  " 

"  Like  who?  Miss  Salem?  "  I  asked,  a  little  sur- 
prised. 

She  nodded. 

"  Why,  yes.    Yes,  indeed,"  I  responded,  heartily. 


«$>  A  Spartan  Three         «$»         311 

"  She  is  an  attractive  woman,  very  genuine  and  com- 
panionable. I  should  think  any  one  she  liked  would 
be  very  apt  to  like  her." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Genevieve,  "  I  suppose  it  is  just 
so.  And  how  delightful !  To  be  so  —  so  strong  and 
admirable  and  attractive  that  any  one  whom  you 
liked  would  be  sure  to  like  you." 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

A   Plaster   Eros 

"  O  Love  1     What  shall  be  said  of  thee  — 
The  son  of  Grief,  begot  by  Joy  ? 
Being  sightless,  wilt  thou  see  ?  " 

SOMETIME  in  the  deep  night  I  wakened  abruptly 
but  quietly,  and  lay  looking  at  the  shadow  of  the 
lace  curtain  as  the  strong  white  moonlight  painted 
it  upon  the  door.  I  was  possessed  utterly  by  a 
sense  of  ease  and  peace  and  thankfulness  such  as 
I  had  not  known  for  many  months,  after  the  pre- 
posterous racking  of  that  fierce  and  senseless  head- 
ache. It  was  the  door  into  the  parlour  between 
Miss  Salem's  room  and  mine  which  was  shadow 
painted ;  and  as  I  looked  at  it,  it  opened  silently, 
and  Miss  Salem  came  in,  exactly  as  Genevieve  had 
come  through  the  other  door  a  few  hours  before. 

She  would  have  gone  back  at  once,  when  she 
found  the  room  dark,  but  I  called  to  her,  "  I'm  wide 
awake.  Come  in  and  turn  on  the  lights.  I  am 
glad  to  have  you."  Then,  as  the  lights  flashed  out, 
I  added,  "  How  splendid  you  look !  What  time  is 
it?" 

"  Three  o'clock.  I  have  just  left  the  '  world- famed 
ball,'  "  she  replied.  She  was  flushed  a  little  beyond 
her  wont,  and  looked  very  fine  in  her  grand  toilet. 

3" 


«f>  A  Plaster  Eros          «$>          313 

"  I  thought  I  would  come  and  see  if  you  were 
awake  —  I  imagined  you  might  be  writing.  I  have 
scarcely  seen  you  since  breakfast,  and  there  is  only 
one  more  day  of  our  living  together.  Put  on  your 
dressing-gown  and  come  over  to  my  room,  Cara, 
and  tell  me  what  wild  adventure  you  met  with 
to-day." 

I  smiled  at  a  sudden  recollection,  and  observing 
my  mirth,  she  said,  "  There  it  is,  tell  it  to  me." 

So,  while  Miss  Salem  removed  her  evening  dress 
and  adornments  (for  with  all  her  generous,  even 
lavish  manner  of  living,  she  never  kept  a  maid),  and 
arrayed  herself  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  I 
produced  the  desired  adventure. 

"  It  was  on  the  bridge,"  I  began.  "  This  after- 
noon—  I  find  a  good  deal  of  my  experience,  and 
make  many  of  my  observations  on  the  bridge  —  this 
afternoon  I  had  been  to  Brooklyn.  You  know  I  am 
very  fond  of  walking  over  the  bridge,  so  I  walked 
very  slowly  across  it,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench 
on  the  New  York  tower,  because  I  was  nearly  half 
an  hour  too  early  for  an  engagement.  I  was  going 
to  present  a  very  nice  letter  of  introduction  to  a  very 
important  person.  The  letter,  you  will  understand, 
was  written  by  a  man  who  couldn't  well  help  himself. 
He  was  under  some  obligations  to  a  very  warm 
partisan  of  mine  back  in  Texas,  and  needed  the 
support  of  a  still  warmer  one  in  the  matter  of  a  little 
office." 

Miss  Salem  began  to  laugh,  and  shook  her  head  at 
me. 

"  Oh,  that's  right !  "  I  cried,  "  I  am  just  telling 
it  to  you  straight.  Well,  then,  it  would  show  very 
poor  judgment,  indeed,  —  don't  you  think?  —  to  go 


314         •&         The  Last  Word  «f» 

early  to  such  an  engagement.  So,  meaning  to  occupy 
the  spare  half -hour,  I  sat  down  and  opened  a  book 
—  you  know  I  always  carry  one  with  me." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  do  —  and  never  read  it." 

"  But  people  are  much  more  interesting  and  at- 
tractive to  me  than  books ;  and  I  always  take  them  in 
preference,  when  I  can  get  them.  Failing  people, 
a  book  is  a  great  thing." 

"  Certainly  I  ought  to  agree  to  that,"  she  smiled. 

"  Well,"  I  continued,  "  having  opened  my  book, 
I  looked  about  to  see  if  I  couldn't  find  some  living 
interest  instead.  Sure  enough,  not  three  feet  away, 
there  sat  what  Sam  Weller  would  denominate  '  a 
old  file.'  He  was  a  very  picture-book  figure,  a  stage 
old  man,  long,  thin,  seedy,  with  fluffy  white  hair 
and  glittering  black  eyes  —  eyes  as  black  as  the  vil- 
lain's purpose.  He  fixed  me  with  these  burning  eyes, 
and  he  says,  says  he,  *  Did  you  ever  study  Om- 
nology?' 

"  Now  —  now,"  objected  Miss  Salem,  reprov- 
ingly. 

"  He  did,"  I  declared,  "  he  did  say  Omnology. 
And  he  called  it  something  else  presently  —  as  you'll 
see,  if  you'll  let  me  get  on  with  my  story." 

"  Well,  well,"  allowed  Miss  Salem,  "  go  on." 

"  He  inquired,  then,"  I  reiterated,  "  *  Did  you  ever 
study  Omnology  ?  '  and  I  blushed  hotly,  for  I  thought 
of  that  rosy  letter  in  my  pocket,  which  stated  that 
I  had  been  subjected,  as  it  were,  to  a  very  superior 
education ;  and  here  was  an  old  file  requiring  of  me 
an  '  ology '  I'd  never  even  heard  of  before.  So  I 
faltered,  '  Well  —  ah  —  only  superficially.  I  — ' 

"  '  Just  so,'  interrupted  the  ancient  man,  '  it  is 
ever  too  abstract  for  the  female  mind.  It  is  to 


«9»  A  Plaster  Eros          <*»          315 

psychology  what  algebra  is  to  arithmetic.  Beautiful 
science  —  wonderful,  ennobling  study!  Now,  you 
are  a  woman'  (I  bowed  humbly),  'but  you  have 
an  intelligent  eye'  (I  brightened),  'and  I  have  a 
system  by  which  I  can  explain  to  you  the  true  princi- 
ples of  Omnetrics '  (Omnetrics,"  I  repeated,  im- 
pressively, to  Miss  Salem.  "  I  told  you  he  called  it 
something  else  later),  'a  system  by  which  I  can 
explain  to  you  the  principles  of  Omnetrics  in  an 
hour's  time.'  (I  collapsed.) 

"  '  Look  at  this  bridge,'  said  my  old  man,  '  the 
vast,  powerful  edifice.  Note  its  massive  towers,  iron 
girders,  cables,  and  pillars.  Does  it  not  seem  great 
and  wonderful  to  you  —  even  as  a  mere  bridge  —  a 
feat  of  engineering  and  mechanical  skill?  Yet  all 
the  structures  of  man,  the  monuments  of  his  strength, 
the  fabrics  of  his  skill  and  cunning,  are  cryptograms, 
wherein  lie  hidden  the  soul's  thought.  All  these 
thoughts  and  images,  fit  reading  for  an  angel  or  a 
god,  you  may  decipher  if  you  once  learn  the  magic 
key.  Now  to  begin  —  ' 

"  I  glanced  at  my  watch.  I  had  just  thirteen 
minutes  to  go  on. 

"  '  But,'  said  he,  with  a  note  of  reproach  in  his 
voice,  as  he  observed  the  action,  '  I  am  detaining 
you,  I  see.  You  wish  to  go.  You  are  but  a  woman, 
a  young  woman  at  that,  and  these  things  — ' 

"  This  tone  piqued  me.  '  You  are  much  misled ! ' 
I  cried.  '  You  do  me  wrong ;  you  fail  to  reckon 
with  my  higher  self;  and  you  have  simply  no  idea 
of  my  yearning  after  the  unattainable.  I  should 
love  to  remain  here  on  this  ingeniously  uncomfort- 
able bench  through  blissful  ages,  listening  to  you  on 
Omnology.  But,  alas!  I  must  go  and  do  things  to 


316         *&•         The  Last  Word  «^ 

earn  bread  and  butter.  It  is  now  two-seventeen 
o'clock.  At  two-thirty,  sharp,  I  must  be  "  there  " 
tc  "  see  a  person,"  or  the  particular  jig  which  I  am 
engaged  in  promoting  is  up.  I  do  not  know  —  I 
may  never,  never  know  —  Omnetrics.  But  I  know 
a  little  bit  of  arithmetic,  enough  to  enable  me  to 
count  small  sums  of  money,  and  tell  time.  The 
difference  between  seventeen  and  thirty  is  still,  as  it 
was  in  my  infancy,  thirteen.  Thirteen  minutes  from 
here  to  Printing-House  Row!  It  is  not,  I  trust 
you  believe,  that  I  lack  the  finer  appreciation. 
"  Time,  time  doth  thrust  me  from  thine  arms ;  good- 
bye, sweetheart,  good-bye ! " '  And  I  fled  away  to 
New  York." 

During  my  recital,  Miss  Salem  had  laughed  till 
the  tears  came.  Now,  as  I  made  an  end,  she  was 
silent;  and  her  face,  turned  toward  me,  was  tender 
and  reminiscent;  a  mist  of  remembrance  seemed 
to  have  arisen  in  those  always  beautiful  dark  eyes  of 
hers. 

"  It  was  an  adventure  worthy  of  you,"  she  said ; 
"  but  your  old  man,  your  quaint  old  Yankee  —  of 
course  you  know  he  was  a  Yankee  —  has  carried  me 
back  to  my  childhood ;  he  has  brought  freshly  back 
to  me  things  that  I  had  scarcely  thought  of  since 
they  happened  —  thirty  years  ago." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  agreed,  "  he  was  a  Yankee  of  the 
Yankees.  That's  one  reason  why  I  thought  he  would 
amuse  you.'? 

"  That  is  why  he  does  much  more  than  amuse 
me,"  she  added.  "  Do  you  know,  he  reminds  me  of 
my  great-uncle  Ansel  who  lived  with  us  —  my 
mother  and  me  —  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life." 


«$»  A  Plaster  Eros          «9»          317 

"  This  old  file  of  mine,"  I  suggested,  a  little  hesi- 
tatingly, "  had  —  er  —  wheels  in  his  head." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  understand,"  she  laughed.  "  Uncle 
Ansel  was  not  entirely  free  from  wheels.  He  was 
father's  uncle.  Mother  understood  him  about  as 
much  as  —  well,  as  you  understand  Omnetrics.  If 
he  had  lived  somewhere  else  than  in  East  Benton 
or  its  likes,  he  might  perhaps  have  been  a  poet,  or 
a  great  mathematician,  or  an  inventor  —  he  had 
genius.  As  it  was,  he  was  tinkering  with  a  per- 
petual motion  machine  in  the  woodshed.  He  was 
eighty  then.  Long  before  I  saw  Uncle  Ansel,  his 
environment,  hostile,  scoffing,  contemptuous,  had 
overwhelmed  and  destroyed  him.  He  was  a  gentle, 
drooping,  silent,  dark-eyed  old  man,  with  that  pa- 
tient, settled  melancholy  which  seemed  so  much  a 
part  of  him  that  it  was  hardly  sad. 

"  Mother  was  always,  in  her  way,  kind  to  him ; 
practical  kindness,  you  know,  of  all  sorts.  But," 
and  she  laughed  softly  to  herself,  "  how  could  he  fail 
to  perfect  his  perpetual  motion  machine,  with  such 
a  model  as  she  was  always  before  him?  A  woman 
notable  for  her  indomitable  energy,  her  thrift,  and 
her  unending  activity,  even  at  East  Benton,  where 
such  traits,  you  would  think,  could  make  themselves 
conspicuous  only  by  their  absence.  And  so  for  a 
confidante,  Uncle  Ansel  was  thrown  upon  me.  And 
the  story  of  your  old  man  and  his  Omnology  brought 
up  to  my  mind  the  vision  of  myself,  a  very  small 
girl  in  a  very  large  apron,  sitting  on  the  woodshed 
step,  with  some  light  task  considered  suitable  for  my 
youthful  hands,  listening  while  Uncle  Ansel  lectured 
me  upon  his  latest  abstruse  mechanical  or  meta- 
physical theory.  And  my  mother,  the  silent,  impa- 


318         «f>         The  Last  Word  «$» 

tient,  capable  New  England  woman,  went  endlessly 
about  that  labour  which  supported  him  and  me  and 
herself  —  and  sometimes,  when  things  went  badly, 
father,  too,  who  was  considered  visionary  and  im- 
practical, and  who  was  down  here  in  New  York 
much  of  this  time. 

"  I  used  to  be  half-crazy  with  sheer  joy  during 
father's  visits  home.  He  was  always  concerned  with 
books  and  bookmaking.  You  know  he  was  working 
here  at  his  trade  —  that  of  a  printer  —  but  still 
trusting  to  establish  the  publishing  business  of  which 
he  finally  did  make  such  a  great  success.  To  me,  a 
child  whose  only  real  life  was  in  the  few  books  he 
could  bring  me,  he  was  a  prince,  my  ideal  of  grace, 
and  of  courtesy  and  refinement  —  and  so  dear,  so 
very  dear." 

Miss  Salem  sat  gazing  with  reflective  eyes  at  the 
rings  she  was  taking  off  and  putting  back  upon  her 
slender  fingers.  All  that  she  had  said  sounded  very 
strange  to  me;  for  knowing,  as  I  now  realised,  very 
little  of  her,  I  had  never  imagined  her  without  her 
appropriate  setting  of  power  and  affluence.  Now, 
I  smiled  a  little  at  the  remembrance  of  Mr.  De Witt's 
recent  embarrassment  before  her  victoria,  her  liv- 
eried servants,  her  Paris  costume;  for  it  was  cer- 
tainly before  these,  not  before  Priscilla  Salem,  that 
he  felt  embarrassment. 

"  You  are  very  like  your  father,  aren't  you,  Miss 
Salem  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  Why,  yes.  Yes,  in  many  ways,"  she  returned. 
f<  I  look  like  him,  and  I  certainly  have  his  gift  of 
knowing  unerringly  what  will  make  a  lastingly  popu- 
lar and  profitable  book.  That  was  the  thing  he 
put  into  the  firm  which  made  its  great  success.  His 


«f»  A  Plaster  Eros          <&          319 

partner  was  exclusively  a  financial  man.  But  I 
must  have  inherited  some  of  my  mother's  faculty; 
for  I  have  always,  in  all  circumstances,  been  my  own 
financier." 

Miss  Salem  laughed  reminiscently.  "  I  will  tell 
you  a  funny  thing  I  did  when  I  was  a  child,  that 
showed  the  curious  working  of  the  two  natures  in 
me.  With  my  mother's  unflagging  energy  and 
fidelity  of  purpose,  I  picked  blueberries,  all  through 
the  season,  the  year  I  was  seven  —  for  that  was  the 
only  way  an  East  Benton  child  could  have  earned 
a  little  money  —  to  get  enough  to  buy  a  gift  for 
•my  father,  when  he  should  come  home  at  Thanks- 
giving. 

"  My  mother  had  too  clear  an  appreciation  of 
human  rights  to  take  the  money  from  me,  or  even 
coerce  my  choice,  as  most  New  England  women  of 
her  time  and  circumstances  would  have  done.  But 
she  did  suggest  one  or  two  articles  of  apparel  which 
she  knew  would  be  welcome  and  needed. 

"  When  at  last  I  found  myself  in  the  store,  with 
more  money  than  I  had  ever  had  in  all  my 
life  together,  I  was  dazzled  by  the  bewildering 
possibilities  in  a  dollar  and  a  quarter.  But  all  my 
doubts  were  soon  ended.  There  was  a  small  statu- 
ette representing  Love;  a  poor  little  thing,  of  course, 
in  every  sense;  but  the  whiteness  of  it,  and  beyond 
all  the  idea  it  carried,  so  charmed  me,  so  over- 
whelmed me  with  delight,  that  I  felt  sure  father, 
once  in  possession  of  it,  would  be  perfectly  happy. 
It  was,  I  remember,  a  dollar  and  three  shillings; 
and  the  store-keeper  let  me  have  it  for  my  dollar  and 
a  quarter  'seeing's  'twas  me,  and  a  present  to  my  pa.' 

"  Mother's  helpless  anger  before  it,  when  I  car- 


320        «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

ried  it  home,  in  a  perfect  fever  of  delight  and 
anticipation;  her  bitter  regret  that  she  had  allowed 
me  such  latitude,  are  things  I  understood  better 
later. 

"  Poor,  thrifty,  sorely  tried  soul !  She  got  small 
comfort  in  the  matter  out  of  either  of  us;  for  I 
would  not  be  penitent,  and  father  persisted  in  being 
delighted  because  I  had  bought  for  him  the  thing 
that  I  loved  and  cared  for,  with  full  confidence  that 
he  would  understand  and  love  it,  too.  This  com- 
forted me  entirely;  besides,  Uncle  Ansel  admired 
my  purchase  warmly,  if  clandestinely;  so  that, 
though  we  were  not  individually  influential,  we  had 
mother  in  a  numerical  minority." 

We  had  turned  off  the  lights  some  time  ago,  to 
see  if  it  was  getting  to  be  day.  It  seemed  strange 
to  me  to  think  of  Priscilla  Salem,  even  as  a  child, 
being  swayed  or  driven  by  unruly  emotions,  way- 
ward desires.  I  had  always  held  her  a  sort  of 
model  of  all  the  discreet  and  serviceable  virtues,  and 
a  nature  rarely  poised  and  reposeful.  Now,  it 
occurred  to  me  that  this  poise  was  what  might  be 
expected  in  a  woman  whose  ambition  appeared  to  be 
attained,  her  material  desires  gratified. 

I  realised  now,  as  I  looked  at  her  shadowy  face 
with  its  large  luminous  eyes,  that  though  she  was, 
as  she  had  so  frankly  told  me,  forty  years  old,  there 
were  in  these  features  still  all  those  youthful  possi- 
bilities of  spendthrift  emotion.  When  she  should 
meet  in  the  shops  of  life  her  next  little  bogus  statu- 
ette, T  believed  she  would  once  more  be  capable  of 
paying-  for  it  all  she  possessed. 

"  You  must  be  almost  entirely  like  your  father," 
was  my  conclusion. 


<+  A  Plaster  Eros          «$»          321 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  assented,  "  I  am  a  Salem.  And  I 
suppose  I  may  be  glad  of  it.  Such  beauty  as  there 
is  in  the  family  comes  in  on  that  side.  Uncle  Ansel 
was  the  type,  and  he  was  a  beautiful  old  man.  I  love 
his  looks,  because  I  fancy  he  was  such  a  man  as 
father  would  have  looked  had  he  lived  to  be  old. 
And  I  could  always  imagine  that,  when  he  was 
young,  he  had  looked  as  father  did." 

She  rose  and  brought  to  me  a  daguerreotype,  a 
slender-faced  young  man,  with  a  great  dome  of  fore- 
head, serious,  lambently  emotional  eyes,  a  beautiful 
but  deficient  lower  face,  and  an  expression  of  shy 
abstraction. 

"Why,  it's  the  'Young  Prophet,' —  it's  my 
*  Young  Isaiah ! '  "  I  cried,  using  a  name  I  had  given 
to  an  oil  portrait,  done  with  much  vigour  and  grace, 
signed  by  a  modern  name,  which  hung  over  the 
chimneypiece  in  the  main  editorial  rooms  down 
town. 

"  It  is  my  father,"  said  Miss  Salem.  And  I 
remembered  that  Mr.  DeWitt  had  said  one  day  when 
I  used  the  same  words  in  regard  to  the  big  por- 
trait, "  It  is  the  founder  of  the  house." 

Now  we  pushed  the  lace  curtain  aside,  and  I 
looked  —  seeking  resemblances  —  from  the  face  in 
the  daguerreotype  to  Miss  Salem's  face  bent  above 
it,  the  cold  gray  daylight  bringing  out  sharply  every 
feature  and  line.  As  I  thus  searched  for  resem- 
blances and  for  differences,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
the  portrait  I  so  admired  must  have  been  made  when 
her  father's  age  was  nearly  what  Miss  Salem's  now 
was,  and  that  my  tribute  had  been  to  the  immortal 
youth  which  looked  out  of  his  eyes,  the  youth  of 
soul,  rather  than  to  any  special  evidence  of  physical 


322         «f»         The  Last  Word  «$> 

youngness.  Priscilla  must  have  got  something,  just 
here,  from  her  mother,  for,  handsome  and  expressive 
as  her  face  was,  sweet  and  luminous  as  were  her 
eyes,  no  such  spirit  of  youth  looked  forth  from  them. 
Rather,  she  was  fully  old  for  her  years,  and  she 
wore  the  look  of  one  who  would,  as  her  material, 
conventional  mother  had  done,  expect  and  accept 
age. 

"  Then,"  I  thought,  "  if  she  does  find  her  little 
statuette,  and  set  her  heart  upon  and  buy  it,  and 
it  is  bogus,  that  will  indeed  be  tragic." 

Miss  Salem  glanced  up  at  me  suddenly  and  inter- 
rupted my  reflections  by  saying  in  a  curious,  half- 
conscious,  half-jesting,  wholly  pathetic  tone,  "  Cara, 
should  you  suppose  —  did  you  ever  —  what  do  you 
say  to  running  away  together  from  all  our  problems 
and  —  and  —  tempt  —  to  running  away  for  a  time? 
Were  you  ever  in  Old  Mexico?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  say  yes  to  both  questions.  I  have 
been  in  Old  Mexico  twice,  and  found  it  wonderfully 
fascinating;  and  I  think  it  would  be  serving  our 
fates  a  very  clever  and  saucy  trick  to  run  away 
and  go  there  together.  Our  relative  positions  would 
there  be  changed.  I  could  show  you  much  th.at  the 
tourist  does  not  see." 

There  had  never  been  any  confidences  between 
Miss  Salem  and  me.  Only,  she  had  been  kinder  and 
drawn  closer  to  me  in  these  last  weeks.  And  on  her 
part,  she  had  not  sought  to  conceal  from  me  that 
something  —  an  anxiety,  a  regret  or  apprehension 
—  was  weighing  upon  her  heart. 

Now  we  talked  a  little  while  of  Mexico,  where 
she  who  had  travelled  all  over  Europe,  and  even  to 


A  Plaster  Eros 


Japan,  had  never  been.  We  constructed  a  hypo- 
thetical itinerary,  and  agreed  quite  heartily  that 
such  a  journey  would  be  most  enjoyable. 

And  I  kept  saying  to  myself  :  "  We  will  never 
go  to  Mexico.  No,  no;  it  is  here,  the  thing  that 
disquiets  and  yet  attracts  her.  And  she  fears  it, 
dreads  it,  maybe,  hesitates  at  it  —  and  is  drawn  and 
held  by  it.  She  only  half  wants  to  run  away." 

We  separated  a  few  minutes  later,  going  each  to 
her  bed;  and  she  kissed  my  cheek  as  I  rose  to  go 
—  a  mark  of  affection  I  had  never  seen  her  offer 
to  any  one. 

I  was  to  leave  the  next  day  —  the  day  which  was 
already  begun,  indeed.  I  meant  to  go  before  she 
should  be  awake,  and  did  so,  later. 

Now,  after  my  head  was  upon  the  pillow,  the 
word  Mexico,  Mexico,  began  dancing  through  my 
thoughts.  It  took  to  itself  other  little  words  ending 
in  its  round  sonorous  vowel  ;  it  caught  hands  with 
others  and  yet  others,  adding  them  to  its  tripping, 
balancing,  swaying  train. 

And  the  country  of  my  mind,  the  land  through 
which  this  resonant  verbal  procession  wound  danc- 
ing, was  Old  Mexico.  So,  presently  I  rose,  and  sit- 
ting wrapped  in  my  dressing-gown,  in  that  pale, 
chill,  saddening  gray  of  dawn,  beside  the  window, 
wrote  them  down  on  a  slip  of  paper  which,  stealing 
softly  into  her  room,  I  pinned  to  Miss  Salem's 
pillow  edge;  then  came  silently  back,  slept  two  or 
three  hours,  rose,  packed  my  belongings,  and  was 
back  at  the  Corcorans'  for  lunch. 

This  is  what  my  dancers  said,  and  what  I  pinned 
to  Miss  Salem's  pillow  : 


324         «$>         The  Last  Word  «$» 

And  when  we're  off  at  last  to  Mexico  —  Mexico  — 
To  the  land  of  Montezuma,  and  the  land  of  Cortez,  O, 
Where  dusky  old  cathedrals,  and  wool  and  cacti  grow, 
Where  the  mountains  are  so  high,  and  the  state  of  morals  low, 
I'll  be  your  most  devoted,  thoughtful,  entertaining  beau. 
You  will  be  head,  of  course,  and  I'll  be  end-man  of  the  show; 
And  we'll  hoist  our  little  sails  to  all  the  frolic  winds  that  blow, 
Caring  not  for  time  or  tide,  recking  not  of  fast  or  slow, 
For  we'll  leave  them  all  behind,  the  griefs  that  haunt  and  vex 

us  so, 

Drifting  out  to  sea,  just  which  way  the  currents  go, 
Or  rocking  in  some  eddy,  to  the  ebb  and  to  the  flow, 
Dreaming  all  that  checked  and  thwarted  us  was  years  and 

years  ago, 

And  that  sorrow's  grave  is  deep,  where  heartsease  and  pop- 
pies grow. 

But  a  string,  a  string  is  to  us,  let  us  wander  high  or  low ! 
A  little  string  that  tightens,  yet,  the  further  that  we  go. 
I'll  tell  you !     Let  us  break  it,  with  one  determined  blow ! 
(Just  a  snap,  and  all  is  over ;  it  won't  hurt  long,  I  know) 
Let's  change  garments  with  some  shepherdess,  and  live  in 

Mexico. 
There,  the  rains  they  will  not  wet  us,  rude  winds  they  never 

blow; 

The  sun,  it  only  shines  to  lend  to  cheeks  a  warmer  glow ; 
Pitying  skies  will  smile  above,  the  kindly  slopes  below  — 
There's  no  such  thing  as  happiness,  on  earth,  of  course,  you 

know, 

But  rest,  I  think  that  we  might  find,  and  peace  —  in  Mexico. 
So,  if  it's  peace  you're  seeking,  say  yes  !     Is  it  a  go  ? 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

Flawed  Vessels 

"  Shall  the  thing  formed  say  to  him  who  formed  it,  Why 
hast  thou  made  me  thus  ? 

"  Hath  not  the  potter  power  over  the  clay,  of  the  same  lump 
to  make  one  vessel  unto  honour  and  another  unto  dishonour  ?  " 

BUSHROD,  Genevieve,  and  I  had  been  taking  our 
last  walk  together  for  the  present.  Mrs.  Randolph, 
it  seemed,  was  worse.  They  had  written  Bushrod 
to  come  to  her,  and  he  was  to  go  that  night. 

Mr.  DeWitt  had  needed  some  one  in  Chicago 
for  a  bit  of  special  work,  and  upon  my  promising 
that  my  own  column  should  not  suffer  thereby,  had 
agreed  that  I  might  go.  So  that  I  was  leaving  the 
next  day.  Genevieve  had  parted  from  us  at  the 
Park  gateway,  and  Bushrod  and  I  were  separating 
at  my  door. 

No  man  but  Bushrod  Floyd  would  have  been 
willing  under  the  circumstances,  knowing  that  I 
had  not  heard  from  Frank,  that  my  heart  was  sore 
and  aching  because  I  had  not  heard  —  not  a  line,  a 
word,  a  message,  even  an  indirect  one  —  to  suggest 
carefully  veiled,  second-hand  information.  But 
Bushrod's  only  thought  was  to  offer  whatever  would 
most  please  or  help  me,  and  so  he  said,  at  the  last 

32S 


326         «$»         The  Last  Word  -$» 

moment,  "  This  will  be  my  address  in  Richmond, 
Cara,"  handing  me  a  little  card,  and  adding,  "  Are 
you  going  to  stop  at  the  Shrewsbury,  as  DeWitt  sug- 
gested?" 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  he  has  arranged  for  me  to  be 
there." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  your  address  from  the  first," 
observed  Bushrod.  "  You  know  I  must  write  to 
you ;  "  then  lightly,  "  it's  got  to  be  a  kind  of  blessed 
habit,"  and  we  said  good-bye,  bidding  each  other 
be  of  good  cheer,  and  separated. 

No  letter  reached  me  from  Bushrod  during  my 
brief  stay  in  Chicago.  When  I  came  home,  greatly 
disquieted,  Mr.  Corcoran  told  me  they  had  been 
notified  at  the  office  that  he  had  not  arrived  in  Rich- 
mond; and,  as  Mrs.  Randolph  still  grew  worse, 
being  now  considered  in  a  dangerous  condition,  they 
had  telegraphed  the  office,  his  boarding-place,  and 
the  Randolph  kin  in  Washington,  hoping  to  find 
him. 

I  had  selfishly  counted  on  long,  loving  letters 
which  should  give  me,  under  guise  of  general  news, 
all  details  of  Frank's  life,  appearance,  and,  as  nearly 
as  another  man  could  guess  it,  his  present  state  of 
feeling.  To  have  no  news  from  Virginia  was  a  dis- 
appointment, of  itself;  but  the  way  in  which  it  had 
failed  me  was  chilling,  ominous. 

Mr.  DeWitt  was  short  for  humourous  copy  in 
the  service,  one  of  his  funny  men  being  down  with 
the  grip,  and  he  appealed  to  me.  "  You  could  do  me 
such  a  column  very  cleverly,  Miss  West,"  he  blan- 
dished. "  If  you  would  take  some  of  the  street 
scenes,  which  you  handle  so  well,  and  make  them  a 
trifle  more  farcical,  it  would  be  just  what  I  need. 


Flawed  Vessels         «f»         327 


Why  not  try  one  of  the  police  courts  ?  I  used  to  get 
much  of  my  humourous  copy  at  the  Tombs." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  DeWitt,"  I  protested,  "  there  isn't  an 
ounce  of  fun  in  me  —  haven't  you  some  nice  obitu- 
ary work  for  me  ?  —  I  am  in  the  mood  for  it, 
exactly." 

My  editor  smiled  broadly,  then  gave  me  a  keen, 
kindly  glance,  which  suggested  that  he  examined  my 
drooping  head  for  a  garland  of  willow.  I  read,  or 
thought  I  read,  in  his  eye  the  dictum  that  whether 
I  could  write  funny  or  not,  I  myself  was  monstrous 
amusing. 

I  accepted  the  Tombs  commission  with  undue 
haste,  and  went  away  to  hunt  up  Jim,  who,  Miss 
Bucks  being  in  Canada  visiting  friends,  was  the  one 
strong,  cheerful  face  left  in  my  daily  life. 

The  next  day  but  one,  I  brought  in  my  copy.  It 
was  not  the  humourous  matter  for  which  my  editor 
had  asked.  As  I  laid  the  package  upon  his  desk  I 
said,  "  There.  I  wish  I  had  never  attempted  the 
mission;  but  there  are  the  results,  as  near  funny 
as  I  could  make  them." 

He  gave  me  a  quick,  inquiring  glance.  "  Wasn't 
my  suggestion  a  good  one?  "  he  asked.  "  Did  you 
not  find  stimulating  material  in  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  found  myself  stimulated  to  question 
all  the  plans  of  God,"  I  answered.  "  It  has  ham- 
mered in  my  brain  all  day,  *  Why  ?  —  Why  ?  What 
is  the  purpose  in  all  the  misery  of  this  miserable 
world?'" 

"  Didn't  you  get  anything  at  the  Tombs  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  DeWitt.  "  I  have  always  found  so  much  in  it 
—  both  tragic  and  humourous." 

"  Yes,"  I  repeated,  bitterly,  "  I  found  it  there  — 


The  Last  Word 


I  got  it  there  —  the  whole,  everlasting,  horrible, 
maddening  problem.  Oh,  I  got  it,  fast  enough  —  I 
got  it  bad.  Now  I  want  some  one  to  tell  me  what 
to  do  with  it  !  " 

I  looked  —  I  had  learned  to  look  —  for  a  smart 
rejoinder  from  Mr.  DeWitt;  a  sarcastic  suggestion, 
perhaps,  that  I  remit  my  herculean  and  exhausting 
labours  upon  mending  the  world's  condition,  and 
attend  strictly  to  the  production  of  humourous  copy  ; 
but  the  things  which  had  chanced  to  me,  on  that 
miserable  hunt  for  material  wherewith  to  build  a 
funny  column,  still  clutched  at  my  throat  and  de- 
manded utterance. 

What  he  did  was  to  lean  forward,  put  his  chin 
on  his  hand,  and  regard  me  quietly  and  intently. 

"  Yes,"  he  observed,  after  a  long  pause,  "  it  was 
a  mistake.  I  was  wrong  to  send  you  there.  I  sup- 
pose the  very  outside  appearance  of  the  place  struck 
chill  to  your  soul  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  I  returned,  "  not  forecasting  what  I 
should  meet  within,  I  was  rather  fascinated  by  the 
mere  outside  of  it.  The  long,  low,  gloomy  pile  looks 
like  a  scrap  out  of  the  sombre  Eastern  past,  dropped 
by  some  queer  accident  into  the  heart  of  to-day.  Do 
you  know  who  designed  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  known  the  story  of  the  thing,  but  I  can't 
recall  it  just  this  minute,"  answered  Mr.  DeWitt. 

"  I  wonder  if  its  architecture  came  and  camped 
down  upon  the  outskirts  of  his  consciousness  among 
the  Oriental  phantasmagoria  of  a  hashish  dream,"  I 
parleyed.  I  was  already  repentant  that  I  had  said 
so  much  to  my  editor,  anxious  only  to  have  him 
allow  that  the  stuff  I  had  brought  in  would  do,  and 
let  me  go. 


Flawed  Vessels         «f»          329 


"  Why,  yes,  I  think  it  did,  hashish,  or  some  of 
its  congeners,"  he  returned.  "  But  tell  me  what 
hurt  you,  personally,  in  all  that  ruck  of  wretched- 
ness? I  am  curious  to  know." 

I  had  been  standing  beside  Mr.  DeWitt's  desk. 
At  a  sudden  recollection  which  his  words  brought  up 
to  me,  I  turned  and  sat  down,  shading  my  eyes  with 
my  hand.  Then,  aware  that  he  was  looking  at  me 
very  curiously,  and  that  my  attitude  must  be  inex- 
plicable to  him,  I  said,  with  an  attempt  at  cheerful- 
ness, "  It's  a  really  wonderful  looking  building.  It 
should  have  groups  of  ebony  soldiers,  bare-legged, 
wearing  curiously  folded  head-dresses  and  bearing 
great  spea'rs,  to  stand  motionless  at  its  entrances, 
instead  of  the  blue-coated,  brass-buttoned  police- 
man. A  person  only  fairly  supplied  with  imagi- 
nation needs  but  to  half  shut  his  eyes,  as  I  did,  and 
look  expectantly  at  its  portals,  to  see  Cleopatra  sur- 
rounded by  her  fan-bearers,  attended  by  Charmian, 
and  Iras,  and  all  her  shimmering  train,  issue  from 
the  dark  arch  and  sweep  down  the  broad  flight  of 
steps,  to  vanish  into  the  glare  of  Centre  Street." 

"  That's  all  right,"  remarked  my  editor,  sitting 
up.  "  What's  the  matter  with  that  ?  Why  didn't 
you  get  up  something  along  that  line?  Or  maybe 
you  did.  Is  this,"  partially  unfolding  my  copy,  "  in 
that  vein  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered,  in  a  broken  voice,  "  that  stuff 
is  supposed  to  be  funny :  but  if  people  shed  the  tears 
over  reading  it  that  I  did  over  writing  it,  you  will 
carry  out  that  old-time  threat  of  yours  and  discharge 
me  without  a  character." 

"Why  didn't  you  stick  to  the  poetic  vein?  that 
was  good  in  its  way,"  said  Mr.  De  Witt. 


33°         *£*         The  Last  Word  «9» 

"  Why,  indeed?  "  I  cried,  "  because  we  went  in- 
side!" ' 

"  <  We  '  —  who  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"Jim  and  I,"  I  answered;  "Jim  Baxter.  I  got 
him  to  put  off  that  beloved  trip  up  the  Hudson  till 
next  week,  and  go  with  me  instead." 

"  That  was  a  mistake,"  said  Mr.  De  Witt.  "  The 
big  Texas  man  is  an  infant  in  matters  of  that  sort. 
If  anything  painful  was  to  be  met,  he  would  be  safe 
to  go  all  to  pieces  over  it." 

"  Well,  we  went  in  ready  to  be  amused ;  for  I 
recalled  that  you  had  told  me  you  once  got  such  a 
funny  story  there." 

"Oh,  I!"  remarked  Mr.  DeWitt,  "with  my 
blunted  sensibilities,  my  cynical  city  man's  point  of 
view.  No,  I  see  it  was  not  a  bright  idea  for  me  to 
send  you  there  —  to  find  fun.  Then  you  must  needs 
annex  a  worse  booby,  a  more  besotted  philanthropist 
than  yourself!  You  two  were  indeed  a  pair  of 
dewy-eyed  babes  for  a  stunt  like  the  Tombs  police 
court!  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  asking 
Miss  Bucks  to  write  up  a  prize-fight,"  and  he 
chuckled. 

"  Well,  we  looked  about  inside,  and  agreed  that 
the  room  where  court  is  held  had  a  certain  grotesque 
resemblance  to  the  interior  of  a  country  church,  with 
its  rows  of  benches  on  each  side  a  central  aisle,  its 
rail  across  in  front  of  the  pulpit-like  judge's  seat, 
and  its  amen  corner  full  of  fine-looking,  well- 
groomed  policemen." 

"  But  that  isn't  bad,  either,"  put  in  my  editor, 
meditatively.  "  It  seems  to  me,  after  all,  that  you 
did  find  much  which  you  could  make  use  of,  though 
it  wasn't  humourous," 


Flawed  Vessels         «$»         331 


"  Oh,  but  when  we  came  to  see  the  material  from 
which  the  '  fun '  was  to  have  been  made!  "  I  cried. 
"  No  country  mourner's  bench  or  anxious  seat  ever 
supported  such  piteous  penitents;  no  village  parson 
ever  exhorted,  comforted,  or  reproved  such  wrecked 
and  ruined  temples  of  humanity." 

"  I  suppose  the  two  of  you  got  your  first  sight 
of  '  the  criminal  classes  '  about  which  you  had  read, 
and  found  you  had  no  real  conception  of  what  they 
really  are." 

"  Yes,  just  that,"  I  responded  with  some  relief. 
"  No  conception  —  no  notion ;  I  don't  believe  that 
anybody  has  who  lives  in  the  country,  in  a  village,  or 
in  the  West,  where  there  is  room  and  a  chance  for 
all,  or,  indeed,  anywhere  outside  of  the  large  cities. 
What  horrified  us  was  that  these  are  not  people  who 
have  committed  a  crime  or  misdemeanour ;  they  are 
those  —  if  I  might  use  the  expression  —  who  are 
to  commit  crimes.  Look  at  them,  and  say  if  they 
do  not  carry  their  doom  with  them.  It  is  born 
with  them  at  their  birth,  of  vicious  and  depraved 
parents;  the  air  of  vice  is  in  their  baby  nostrils, 
the  aptitude  for  crime,  the  impulse  of  long  past 
evil,  is  in  their  veins.  Crime  is  expected  of  them 
—  everything  impels  them  to  it  —  they  are  fore- 
doomed —  consigned  —  to  it." 

"  You  take  it  too  hard !  "  deprecated  my  editor. 
"Of  course  it  is  a  grim  theatre;  but  I  tell  you 
they  are  all  actors,  more  or  less.  Every  one  of  the 
pitiful  crew  which  crowd  its  greenroom  and  elbow 
each  other  upon  its  stage,  watches  the  judge's  face 
to  see  what  role  will  have  most  effect  upon  him, 
and  each  does  his  level  best  to  play  the  part." 

"  It  is  a  squalid  tragedy,"  I  sighed. 


332         «$>         The  Last  Word  *& 

"  No,  it  is  that  newer  thing  in  stage  work,  the 
vaudeville  —  " 

"  Frightfully  dismal  vaudeville,"  I  insisted, 
gloomily. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  are  ugly  features,"  my  editor 
assented,  "  but  everything  is  included  —  from 
tragedy  down  to  the  broadest  farce  —  in  one  morn- 
ing's performance.  And  consider  that,  if  the 
scenery  is  a  bit  scant  and  monotonous,  at  least  there 
are  no  waits  to  speak  of.  The  action  is  prompt,  and 
in  the  strain  of  living  interest  one  forgets  to  note 
trifles.  Things  go  through  with  a  rush ;  the  heavy 
villain  elbows  the  ingenue,  the  low  comedian  treads 
on  the  skirts  of  the  emotional  tragedienne." 

"  Yes,  if  you  come  to  that,"  I  said,  "  there  is  as 
small  lack  of  feeling  and  spirit  as  of  promptness  and 
action.  A  theatre,  is  it?  A  vaudeville?  Well, 
never  have  I  seen  '  little  parts '  infused  with  such 
sentiment  and  energy.  There  was  one  such  part 
there  to-day  which  contained  only  two  spoken  words ; 
but  I  tell  you  their  tone,  and  the  look  and  gesture 
that  went  with  them,  form  a  recollection  to  which 
I  have  ever  since  sought  vainly  to  give  the  slip. 
'  Six  months,'  that  is  all  there  was  to  it.  A  white- 
faced,  haggard  man  had  the  part,  and  he  raised  his 
hand  vaguely  toward  his  head  with  a  movement  of 
utter  despair,  and  turned  blindly  from  the  bar 
toward  the  bench  where  the  sentenced  ones  wait  for 
the  black  Maria.  He  had  not  looked  up  nor  spoken 
before.  When  the  charge  of  assault  was  made,  a 
young  sprig  of  a  police-court  lawyer  beside  him  had 
repeated,  in  answer  to  the  judge's  question,  '  Guilty/ 
after  bending  toward  the  man's  moving  lips;  and 
had  added  an  explanation  and  a  plea  for  a  sick 


Flawed  Vessels         «f»         333 


young"  wile  and  little  children,  who  would  be  left 
among  strangers.  Oh,  I  tell  you  —  " 

"  There  you  go,  taking  it  all  in  deadly  earnest," 
interrupted  Mr.  DeWitt.  "  Now,  I  saw  a  little  play 
there  at  the  Tombs  one  morning  that  discounted 
anything  I  ever  met  in  the  regular  way  of  acting. 
If  you  will  '  cease  your  complaint  and  suppress  your 
groan  '  for  the  moment,  I  will  give  it  to  you  — 
maybe  you  can  use  it. 

"  I  just  strolled  in  there,  on  a  sort  of  vagrant, 
unauthorised  impulse  one  morning,  and  after  they 
had  ground  through  three  or  four  commonplace 
cases  —  " 

"  Commonplace !  "  I  breathed.  "  Save  the  mark !  " 

'  Yes,  deadly  commonplace,"  reiterated  Mr.  De- 
Witt.  "  —  they  brought  in  another  batch.  Among 
these  was  a  remarkably  handsome  young  man  of 
very  elegant  dress,  manner,  and  bearing.  He  was 
really  a  picture;  a  Poe-like  figure.  But  he  was 
considerably  damaged  and  showed  plainly  the  effect 
of  a  night's  debauch.  The  judge  let  fly  at  him 
promptly,  and  gave  him  to  understand  he  would  very 
much  like  to  have  him  show  cause  why  he  should 
not  get  six  months  on  the  Island  for  resisting  an 
officer. 

"  The  youth  threw  out  his  chest,  clasped  his  hands, 
and  turned  an  electric  battery  of  eloquent  dark  eyes 
on  the  judge,  and  the  room  was  still  to  hear  him  as 
he  answered,  '  Judge,  I  was  drugged.  I  don't  drink, 
your  Honour,  and  I  wasn't  drunk  last  night;  I  was 
drugged.' 

"  I  think  every  one  of  us,  the  judge,  and  the 
Irish  policeman  who  brought  the  fellow  in,  began 
to  weaken  and  misdoubt  probabilities.  The  officer 


334         *&         The  Last  Word  «$» 

scratched  his  head  dubiously,  and  finally  said,  '  Well, 
your  Honour,  I'll  tell  you  what  he  had  on  him  when 
we  run  'im  in.  'Twas  a  pair  o'  brass  knucks,  an' 
a  slung  shot,  an'  siventeen  pawn  tickets  we  found 
in  his  pockets.  An'  if  there  hadn't  been  two  of  us 
on  the  job  there'd  have  been  murder  done  getting 
him  in  the  wagon.' 

"  While  the  officer  was  saying  this,  the  young 
fellow's  face  beat  anything  I  ever  saw.  There  went 
across  it,  in  the  most  wonderful  way,  astonishment, 
horror,  and  a  perfect  anguish  of  shame.  At  the  end 
he  burst  out,  '  My  wedding  night  —  my  wedding 
night !  I  was  to  have  married  the  sweetest  girl  in  the 
world  last  night,  judge.  I  remember  going  into  a 
place  to  have  something  with  a  man  —  I  never  drink, 
but  he  asked  me  to  come  and  drink  to  the  happy 
occasion.  And  merciful  heaven !  I  don't  remember 
any  more,  judge.  That  drink  was  drugged  as  sure 
as  there's  a  power  above  us ! '  Here  he  looked  wildly 
round  the  court-room,  and  his  fine  eyes  suddenly 
announced  the  horror  of  a  new  thought.  '  I  never 
went  near  her,  I  never  sent  her  any  word  —  what 
must  she  think  of  me?  Oh,  what  can  I  ever  say  to 
her  ? '  He  groaned,  and  I  tell  you  I  felt  mighty 
uncomfortable.  The  judge  himself  had  looked  first 
puzzled,  then  interested,  and  finally  as  sympathetic 
as  I  felt. 

"  The  appearance  of  the  young  fellow  was  now  as 
near  abject  as  so  handsome  and  spirited  a  figure 
could  well  be,  and  I  declare  it  somehow  went  to  my 
heart  to  see  it.  Yes,  it  actually  did. 

"  The  judge  was  plainly  hesitating.  The  pris- 
oner suddenly  leaned  forward  and  said  in  a  low, 
feverish,  hurried  voice,  '  Judge,  I  must  go  to  her 


Flawed  Vessels         «$»         335 


at  once  —  just  as  I  am  —  and  explain.  I  haven't 
a  cent  on  me  to  pay  my  fine ;  but  you'll  be  merciful 
and  let  me  go,  won't  you?  And  you  won't  ask 
my  name  —  in  this  place  —  nor  hers.' 

"  I  suppose  his  Honour  was  once  young  himself. 
He  looked  at  the  working,  eloquent  young  face  and 
pleading  young  eyes;  he  cleared  his  throat  and 
began : 

"  '  Well,  young  man  —  drugs,  or  no  drugs  —  even 
if  you  were  drunk,  I  think  you've  had  a  pretty  good 
lesson,  and  I'm  inclined  —  ' 

"  But  we  never  knew  exactly  what  his  inclination 
might  have  been,  for  at  that  interesting  juncture  a 
disturbance  broke  out  near  one  of  the  doors,  and 
I  saw  a  stout,  red-faced  Englishwoman  pushing  her 
way  toward  the  bar,  muttering  as  she  came.  She 
brought  up  in  front  of  the  prisoner  with  a  startling 
snort. 

'  Yah !     There  y'  are ;    h'all  yer  good  clothes 
in  a  muck,  an'  a  fine  t'  pay  fer  yeh ! ' 

"  His  eye  lit  on  her,  and  the  young  man  collapsed. 

"  His  Honour  braced  up  as  if  he  had  never 
weakened,  and  asked  the  woman,  '  What  is  the 
prisoner  to  you,  madam  ?  ' 

"  '  H'only  my  'usband,'  she  snorted.  And  we 
all  laughed  gladly. 

" '  Why  didn't  you  hold  your  gab  ? '  said  the 
fellow,  coming  out  of  his  collapse  with  a  perfectly 
amazing  air  of  jaunty  indifference.  '  His  Honour 
was  going  to  let  me  off  to  go  to  me  girl,'  and  he 
winked  a  wink  that  caused  several  policemen  to  roar 
with  laughter;  and  even  the  judge  to  smile  reluc- 
tantly. 

"  But  with  his  wife,  it  was  the  red  flag  to  the 


33  6         *$>         The  Last  Word  «£> 

bull.  '  W'y  didn't  h'l  ?  '  she  demanded.  '  Because 
h'l  was  too  dratted  mad !  You  a-marryin'  a  lovely 
gal  —  Yah !  Took  a  h'old  fool  like  me  t'  'ave 
yeh.' 

"  The  woman  had  the  fine  to  pay,  so  the  judge 
made  it  light.  An  Associated  Press  man  whom  I 
know  told  me  afterward  that  the  fellow  is  —  or  was 
—  an  actor.  He's  a  clever  one,  I'll  certify.  It  seems 
he  was  a  talented,  dissolute  chap  who  had  perpetrated 
one  thrifty  act  in  the  course  of  an  exceptionally  reck- 
less and  disgraceful  career,  in  the  marrying  of  his 
landlady.  You  see  he  assured  himself,  in  this  way, 
a  permanent  home  and  plenty  of  purple  and  fine 
linen,  whether  he  employed  his  abilities  on  the  regu- 
lar stage,  or  only  in  pleasing  little  domestic  come- 
diettas. *  Great  is  art,  used  to  great  ends,'  you 
know.  I  tell  you,  Miss  West,  they  are  all  actors, 
more  or  less  conscious.  But  this  young  man  brought 
tc  the  work  professional  training,  and  he  gave  us 
a  good  show  for  our  trouble.  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  Yes.  Oh,  yes,"  I  agreed,  glad  to  get  away  from 
the  remembrance  of  what  I  had  seen  there,  and  the 
problem  it  left  beating  away  in  my  mind.  "  It 
is  so,  too,  that  in  all  strenuous  aspects  of  human 
life  the  laugh  lies  close  to  the  tragedy.  Even  I  saw 
a  funny  thing  in  that  sorrowful  place." 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  so,  then,  instead  of  —  " 

"  I  am  saying  so  now,"  I  broke  in.  "  She  was  a 
pippin-faced  little  old  Irishwoman;  and  when  the 
judge  asked  her  what  she  had  to  say  to  the  officer's 
charge  of  drunk  and  disorderly  she  put  her  head 
on  one  side,  stuck  her  elbows  out  and  assumed  the 
very  attitude  of  a  disputatious  sparrow.  Her  round, 


Flawed  Vessels         «$»         337 


wrinkled,  rosy  face  fell  into  the  most  explanatory 
and  ingratiating  expression. 

'  Judge,'  she  said,  in  a  confidential  tone,  '  I  was 
drunk,  I  was  just  drunk  — -  that's  the  truth.  I  keep 
a  little  stand  down  on  Canal  Street.  All  the  byes 
come  to  get  an  apple  of  me.  Me  an'  the  byes  —  all 
the  bootblacks  an'  newsbyes,  an'  some  of  the  coppers 
—  is  good  friends.  Well,  I  have  been  a-havin'  the 
grip;  havin'  it  bad.  I  was  sick  abed  for  more'n  a 
month;  an'  when  I  got  out  the  byes  was  all  that 
glad  to  see  me  they  wouldn't  listen  to  nothin'  but 
I  must  have  a  drink  with  ivery  one  of  'em.  I 
reckon  I  did  —  yes,  I  reckon  I  had  a  drink  with 
ivery  one  of  'em  —  for  I  don't  remember  much  more 
till  Johnnie,  here '  (jerking  her  head  toward  the 
six-foot  officer  beside  her)  '  woke  me  up  in  the  jug 
awhile  ago,  and  brought  me  here. 

"  '  Say,  judge,'  she  wheedled,  cocking  one  eye 
with  irresistible  drollery  on  his  Honour's  relaxing 
face,  '  I  reckon  you  better  let  me  off.  I  didn't  go 
to  do  it,  fer  a  fact;  but  the  byes  was  that  glad  to 
see  me  —  an',  to  tell  the  truth,  I  can't  drink  as  I 
used  to  drink.'  We  all  laughed  —  even  Jim." 

"And  the  judge?" 

"  Oh,  he  let  her  off.  She  came  out  of  the  dock 
smiling  like  a  cherub,  hanging  on  to  '  Johnnie's  ' 
arm,  and  travelling  at  a  sort  of  two-step,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"  But  you  say  I  take  it  too  hard.  May  I  tell  you 
a  thing  that  made  Jim  and  me  wish  we  had  gone 
up  the  Hudson  —  or  Salt  River  —  or  any  place 
but  there  to  that  —  well,  don't  suppose  I'm  swearing 
if  I  say  that  accursed  police  court?  Please  let  me 


338         ^        The  Last  Word  ^ 

tell  you.  I'll  be  quick.  I  want  to  see  if  you  think 
it  funny  or  commonplace." 

"  Certainly.  By  all  means.  You  can  have  as 
much  as  fifteen  minutes  of  my  valuable  time,"  he 
agreed. 

"  I  will  only  take  about  three,"  I  returned,  assur- 
ingly.  "  This  was  a  part  which  had  no  lines  at 
all,  a  mere  walking  part ;  but  it  made  its  impression 
on  poor  Jim  and  me  as  a  branding-iron  does.  I  had 
seen  something  like  it  before.  When  I  was  quite  a 
little  girl,  I  caught  a  rat  in  a  trap  —  a  marauding, 
ravening  rat,  which  had  burglarised  my  small  stores 
of  possessions  and  murdered  my  little  nestling, 
orphan  rabbit.  And  when  I  went  and  looked  at  the 
thing,  it  silently  fled  round  and  round  the  trap,  at 
such  an  awful  bay  of  pure,  base,  brutish  fear,  it 
looked  at  me  with  such  eyes  of  sheer,  deadly  terror, 
that  my  childish  soul  was  shamed.  When  I  wept 
over  the  fur  and  bones  of  my  baby  rabbit  and  baited 
my  trap,  I  had  not  taken  any  thought  as  to  the 
final  disposition  of  the  criminal.  I  probably  would 
have  said  it  must  be  killed  some  quick  and  merciful 
way.  But  it  was  as  though  the  creature  took  its 
revenge  upon  me,  accusing  me  by  inference,  with 
that  terror,  of  meditated  cruelties  unspeakable.  Its 
frenzy  of  grovelling  desperation  painted  those  cruel- 
ties with  lightning  swiftness  and  distinctness  upon 
my  shrinking  mind." 

"  My  luxuriant  and  bounteous  Southwest," 
urged  Mr.  DeWitt,  laughing,  and  using  one  of  my 
many  sobriquets  which  Mr.  Corcoran  had  made 
popular  in  the  office,  "  I  should  infallibly  burke  about 
thirty  per  cent,  of  those  adjectives  if  you  gave  me 
this  stuff  in  copy,  instead  of  —  " 


Flawed  Vessels         «£»         339 


"  I  wish  you  could  burke  the  recollection  which 
they  endeavour  to  clothe  with  some  little  semblance 
of  reality,"  I  responded,  meekly.  "  I  was  going  to 
say  that  the  look  on  this  poor  little,  gray,  pinched 
face  was  the  same  look  of  mute  animal  terror." 

'''  Yes  —  what  face?"  suggested  my  editor, 
kindly. 

"  Well,"  I  explained,  "  she  was  a  pitiful  creature 
seventeen  or  eighteen  years  old,  who  had  thrown 
her  baby  into  the  East  River.  She  didn't  really 
belong  anywhere  in  our  morning's  program  —  our 
vaudeville.  Her  trial  —  from  the  day  before  — 
was  to  be  continued  in  some  special  court;  she  was 
brought  in  only  to  arrange  some  legal  point  before 
our  judge.  They  read  her  statement.  It  was  a 
very  simple  statement,  which  set  forth  that  she  was 
near  starving  when  she  did  it.  She  could  do  nothing 
for  the  child  —  nor  for  herself,  with  it.  She  threw 
it  in  the  river.  She  nodded,  without  a  sound,  when 
asked  if  this  was  correct.  And  after  some  little  con- 
ferring and  discussing  they  went  away,  the  two  well- 
dressed  lawyers,  several  large,  stout  officers,  and 
this  small  and  abject  creature.  In  her  little  face, 
in  the  leaping  glances  of  her  eyes,  and  the  instinctive 
crouching  of  her  body,  there  was  that  awful  agony  of 
dumb  terror  that  arraigned  all  mankind. 

"Jim  simply  groaned  over  her,  and  proposed 
that  we  go,  and  we  —  well,  we  came  away." 

Mr.  DeWitt  opened  his  lips  to  speak;  and  I, 
expecting  a  sarcasm,  made  an  impatient  movement. 

"  No,  no !  "  he  interposed,  "  I  was  not  about  to 
chaff  you.  I  thought  I  would  drop  into  poetry  as  a 
friend  —  do  you  understand  ?  as  a  friend !  " 

I  was  silent,  looking  contrite  and  submissive  and 


340         •&•         The  Last  Word  «8» 

grateful,  and  Mr.  DeWitt  went  on.     "  Your  own 
dear  Omar  describes  it. 


"  '  Impotent  pieces  of  the  game  he  plays 

Upon  this  checker-board  of  nights  and  days, 
Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks  and  slays, 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  closet  lays.' 

"  That  is  what  he  said  about  it  eight  hundred 
years  ago.  It  was  unorthodox  then;  it  is  just  as 
unorthodox  now.  But  I  never  pretended  to  be 
orthodox.  If  the  old  Tent-maker  were  running  a 
column  in  —  say  —  the  Evening  Sun,  in  what  es- 
sential do  you  suppose  his  verse  would  differ?  We 
are  here  —  two  or  three  millions  of  us  —  in  these 
cities.  We  epitomise  the  world  at  large.  Every 
fellow  chases  his  phantom,  hugs  his  delusion.  We 
are  stimulated  and  sustained  by  hope,  maddened 
by  despair,  or  dull  and  apathetic  with  weariness. 
We  are  content  or  wretched;  turning  each  one,  to 
pleasure,  or  profit,  or  wisdom,  to  good  or  evil,  to 
happiness  or  misery  —  but  we  turn  of  a  necessity, 
and  we  cannot  know  why.  There  appears  to  be  a 
seed  of  fate  in  each  of  us,  that  must  grow  to  its  pre- 
destined form  and  stature,  blossom  in  its  appointed 
time,  and  bring  forth  fruit  according  to  its  kind." 

Now,  I  had  just  seen,  for  the  first  time,  the  low 
heads  and  brutal  or  vicious  or  weak  faces  of  those 
who  habitually  come  before  the  bar  of  a  police 
court;  the  petty  thief,  the  drunkard,  the  abject 
travesties  of  womanhood,  poor  tossing  waifs  and 
wreckage  of  humanity.  Enough,  one  would  say,  to 
beget  in  me  a  mood  of  cosmic  discouragement.  I 
had,  beside,  sustained  there  in  that  place  a  shock 


Flawed  Vessels         «f»         341 


of  which  I  did  not  tell  Mr.  DeWitt,  a  shock  which 
still  reverberated  through  all  my  being.  Yet  his 
submissive  fatalism  roused  some  scattering  of  my 
more  usual  healthful  hope  and  courage. 

The  thing  of  which  he  knew  not  was  too  terrible 
—  it  touched  me  too  close.  In  the  face  of  it,  I 
dared  not  despair.  I  realised  that  the  attitude  I 
had  held  was  weak,  unworthy.  I  must  speak  the 
word  of  hope  for  all  pitiful  creatures  who  were 
unable  to  speak  it  for  themselves.  So  I  answered 
him  earnestly. 

"  What  you  say  is,  in  a  measure  —  in  a  sense  — 
true.  And  yet  these  things,  I  know,  must  needs  sub- 
serve some  useful  purpose.  These  beings  are  going 
their  progress ;  they  are  swinging  through  the  dark 
part  of  the  circle.  When  I  look  at  such,  can  I 
believe  that  the  Power  which  beheld  the  growth 
and  formation  of  that  low  skull,  with  its  great 
room  for  things  fierce  and  base,  and  its  cramped  little 
chambers  for  the  housing  of  any  higher  intellect, 
beheld  —  ay,  and  ordered  —  the  moulding  of  those 
weak,  irresolute  features,  outward  sign  and  blazon- 
ment  of  the  feeble  will  within,  will  crush  and  de- 
stroy the  creature  for  not  being  other  than  a  fixed 
law  made  it?  " 

"  Crush  them  ?  "  interjected  Mr.  DeWitt.  "  They 
are  crushed  now.  Life  has  done  that  to  them." 

"  No,"  I  declared,  "  I  know  it  seems  so.  But  I 
do  not  believe  it.  They  are  progressing,  just  as 
everybody  —  everything  —  is ;  on  a  way  that  is 
wholly  dark  to  them,  largely  dark  to  us,  to  even 
the  highest,  the  most  spiritualised  intelligence;  but 
they  are  progressing.  And  there  is  cause,  reason 
for  it  all ;  and  hope  —  hope  —  hope  —  don't  tell 


342         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

me  —  I  know  it,  I  feel  it  —  there  is  hope  while  a 
human  heart  beats  or  a  breath  flutters ! " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mr.  DeWitt,  "  people  of  our 
class,  who  have  had  a  chance  in  the  world,  have  no 
right  to  judge  them.  When  one  of  us  who  has  had 
the  light  falls,  '  He  falls  like  Lucifer,  never  to  rise 
again.' ' 

The  words  came  as  a  spur  to  me.  "  You  must  be 
always  playing  Job !  "  I  cried.  "  No.  No.  No, 
I  say.  Nobody  falls  never  to  rise  again.  I  am  so 
sure  of  it  that  I  can  forget  all  I  saw  there  at  that 
place  yesterday.  I  can  be  cheerful.  I  can  be  funny, 
now.  Give  me  back  that  stuff  I  handed  you  —  it  is 
not  really  humourous.  I  can  go  write  the  funny 
Coney  Island  story  —  I  feel  like  it  now.  I'm  glad 
I  talked  to  you." 

"  In  your  fine  enthusiasm,"  began  Mr.  DeWitt, 
"  you  overlook  little  fond  considerations  of  time.  It 
is  at  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  that  I  have 
a  use  for  something  to  fill  that  space." 

"  I  will  have  it  here  on  time,"  I  assured  him. 
"  And  you  will  find  it  funny,  too.  It  will  be  funny, 
d'ye  mind !  '  Seed  of  fate ! '  '  Turn  of  a  necessity 
—  and  we  can't  know  why ! '  I  will  tell  you :  This 
'  impotent  piece '  is  the  one  called  the  queen,  who 
believes  that  none  can  say  '  check ! '  to  her,  unless 
her  own  self  pronounce  —  or  accept  —  the  injunc- 
tion. And  she  can  believe  that  of  all  the  others,  too." 

"  It  appears  to  me  that  I  shall  receive  some  sur- 
prising copy  to-morrow  morning,"  Mr.  DeWitt 
observed,  in  a  general  way. 

"You  will,"  I  told  him.  "The  story  — the 
Coney  Island  story  —  is  the  thing!  I  will  remove 


Flawed  Vessels         «9»         343 


all  brakes.  For  once  I'll  write  as  funny  as  I  can,  and 
let  you  and  the  readers  take  the  consequences." 

"  I  declare,"  said  Mr.  DeWitt,  with  deep  and 
kindly  seriousness,  "  I  declare,  my  young  and  sunny 
West,  I'd  rather  have  your  buoyant  ardour  than  my 
brains." 

"  Oh,  good  gracious,  yes !  "  I  cried,  hastily.  "  So 
would  I!  But  just  consider,  I've  got  it,  and  my 
brains ! " 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

«  The   Pity   of  It !  " 

"  O  changed  in  little  space ! 

O  God,  O  God  of  grace  I 
Cover  his  face." 

AND  now,  the  thing  which  I  had  not  told  Mr. 
DeWitt,  which  still  lay  a  secret  between  me  and 
Jim,  and  clipped  the  wings  of  my  humour  and  hung 
heavy  on  my  pencil  when  I  would  gladly  have 
written  the  funny  Coney  Island  story  for  my 
editor,  was  this : 

After  we  had,  as  I  had  described  to  Mr.  DeWitt, 
seen  all  these  pitiful  creatures  come  and  go,  I  was 
sitting  with  my  head  bent  over  my  note-book,  writ- 
ing, when  a  smothered  ejaculation  from  Jim  made 
me  look  up.  There  in  the  prisoners'  dock,  between 
two  policemen,  was  the  form  of  one  I  knew.  There 
was  Bushrod,  who  had  left  the  office  a  week  ago 
to  hasten  to  the  bedside  of  the  woman  who  had 
been  all  the  mother  he  had  ever  known. 

1   looked    with   horrified,    incredulous    eyes.      It 
was  the  same  tall,  broadly  built  figure,  and  the  same 
face  —  but  different.     He  was  in  evening  dress  - 
evening  dress !    Where  had  he  lived,  through  what 
strange,  dark,  unknown  scenes  and  experiences  had 

344 


•&>  "  The  Pity  of  It ! "       -*       345 

he  been,  this  week,  to  come  at  last  to  the  eyes  of 
his  friends  in  this  place,  and  in  evening  dress? 

Bushrod  was  always  dainty  and  immaculate,  fini- 
cal as  a  fine  lady  about  his  wear.  Now,  the  exquisite 
linen  which  his  low-cut  vest  exposed  was  soiled  and 
rumpled.  There  were  ragged  holes  where  studs 
and  sleeve  links  had  been  torn  from  it.  His  patent 
leather  shoes  were  bursted,  muddy,  their  laces  hang- 
ing loose  upon  the  floor.  The  curls  of  his  fair  hair, 
even,  were  matted  down  and  spattered  with  mud. 
He  had  evidently  fallen  in  the  streets,  more  than 
once. 

But  that  which  chained  my  agonised  attention 
was  his  face,  discoloured,  swollen,  and  the  blue  eyes 
—  those  soft,  fond  eyes  —  without  any  light  of 
reason  in  them. 

As  we  looked  up,  the  judge  was  speaking  to  him. 
"  Well,  my  man !  "  he  began,  brusquely.  "  The 
officer  says  he  brought  you  in  fighting  drunk  last 
night.  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself  ?  " 

Bushrod  laid  a  shaking,  white  hand  upon  the 
rail.  His  hands  were  slender,  nervous,  capable- 
looking  members,  the  hand  of  the  artist;  speaking, 
too,  of  generations  of  good  blood.  Now  he  stood 
supporting  himself  against  the  rail,  curiously 
humped  and  sunken,  and  drew  forward  the  torn 
hole  in  his  cuff  where  the  sleeve  link  had  been.  He 
stared  at  it  vacantly,  and  muttered  something  which 
I  did  not  catch.  Jim  told  me  afterward  that  he  was 
saying  he  had  been  robbed. 

"  The  officer  states  that  you  pulled  those  things  out 
yourself,"  responded  the  Judge,  "  and  spent  them  for 
drink." 

Bushrod  gazed  at  the  torn  linen,  and  at  his  finger 


346         -^         The  Last  Word  <& 

where,  as  I  well  remembered,  there  had  been  a  ring, 
and  nodded.  "  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  he  agreed,  "  certainly, 
sir."  And  then,  trying  vaguely  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether, he  went  on  with  a  kind  of  groan,  looking 
piteously  about  him,  "  I  am  a  very  sick  man,  sir. 
Will  nobody  give  me  a  drink  of  water  ?  " 

At  this,  the  person  next  me,  on  the  other  side  from 
Jim,  turned  suddenly  round  and  looked  at  me,  at 
which  I  discovered  that  I  was  moaning,  "  Oh,  oh, 
oh,"  softly,  as  one  half  unconscious  with  pain 
moans.  Nothing  —  no  loss  or  grief  or  failure  of 
my  own  —  had  ever  torn  my  heart  just  as  this  thing 
did. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  felt  that  I  should 
faint.  "  Jim !  "  I  gasped,  clutching  his  arm.  "  You 
must  go  and  help  —  quick.  Can't  I  get  away  with- 
out passing  —  without  going  close  to  him  ?  I'm 
afraid  I'm  going  to  faint,  and  I  cannot  go  past  where 
he  is." 

"  He  wouldn't  know  you,  child,"  said  Jim.  "  He's 
crazy  —  wild.  Lord !  I've  seen  lots  of  them  like 
that  after  a  week's  spree,  and  that  is  what  Bush  has 
been  doing.  Why  don't  they  get  him  a  chair  ?  "  he 
added,  angrily.  "  I've  got  to  go  over  there  and  help 
him." 

We  rose  at  the  same  moment.  The  policeman  was 
speaking  now. 

"  Well,  your  Honour,  I'll  tell  ye  what  he  done. 
He  began  in  the  respectable  places,  an'  he  drank 
himself  so  woild  that  he  was  turned  out  of  all  o' 
them.  Then  he  comes  down  here  on  the  lower 
Bowery  an'  thried  to  clane  out  ivery  dive  on  the 
strate.  He  was  murtherous,  an'  whoopin'  like  a  wild 
Injun.  In  some  o'  the  places,  they  done  'im  up  and 


^  "  The  Pity  of  It ! "       <&       347 

t'rowed  'im  out;  an'  in  some  o'  the  places  he  done 
some  o'  them  up.  He's  a  fighter  all  right." 

While  the  officer  spoke,  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes 
from  Bushrod's  face.  He  was  hearing  nothing  of 
it,  I  felt  sure.  There  was  a  cut  on  his  forehead,  and 
the  soft  curls  were  matted  into  it,"  where  it  had  bled 
uncared  for.  Beside  the  havoc  made  of  his  clothes, 
there  were  a  dozen  hurts  or  bruises  upon  his  face 
and  hands.  His  eyes  were  fixed  and  unseeing,  and 
as  he  sank  into  the  chair  which  had  now  been 
brought  to  him  he  began  a  troubled  muttering,  and 
the  policeman  put  a  hand  upon  him  to  hush  him. 

He  lay  back  in  the  chair;  his  head  was  dropped 
over  the  back  of  it  at  a  curious,  unlifelike  angle,  so 
that  his  eyes  gazed,  blank  and  sightless,  upon  the 
ceiling.  His  face  was  ghastly  white,  with  unnatural 
mottlings  of  dark  red. 

The  countenance  which  I  had  last  seen  rounded 
and  dimpled  like  that  of  infancy,  showed  strange, 
abrupt  depressions.  The  mouth  was  open,  the 
features  twisted  to  one  side  like  the  lines  of  a  faulty 
peach;  and  as  I  looked  he  began  to  sing,  and  the 
policeman  shook  him  rudely  by  the  shoulder  to 
silence  him. 

" '  And  the  stars  shall  fall,  and  the  angels  be  weeping. 
Ere  I  cease  to  love  her,  my  queen  —  my  queen ! '  " 

The  words  came  in  a  small,  whispering,  flatted 
echo  of  that  big,  rich,  tender,  mellifluous  instrument, 
Bushrod  Floyd's  voice,  which,  again,  was  a  modifi- 
cation of  Frank's  matchless,  heart-satisfying  tones. 

Jim  and  I  had  been  making  our  way  toward  the 
rail  as  well  as  we  could.  Before  we  reached  it,  the 
judge  exclaimed  testily : 


348         «*»         The  Last  Word  «*» 

"  Silence  that  man  —  or  take  him  out !  " 

The  ghastliness  of  the  thing  gave  me  strength. 
"  I'll  go,  Jim,"  I  said.  "  I  can  get  out  quite  well 
alone.  I'll  sit  outside  in  the  lobby,  and  you 
must  —  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  make  it  all  right,"  declared  Jim,  hurry- 
ing me  toward  the  door.  "  It's  not  the  first  time 
he's  been  drunk,  and  run  in,  poor  fellow !  " 

"  Nay,  but  'twill  be  the  lasht  toime,"  whispered 
the  little  apple-woman,  who  stood  not  far  from  the 
dock  rail,  gazing  at  him.  "If  iver  I  saw  death  in 
a  face,  'tis  in  yon." 

Jim  came  to  me,  after  nearly  half  an  hour.  He 
had  gotten  Bushrod  sent  to  a  hospital,  not  to  the 
Island.  By  bringing  in  a  physician  from  the  out- 
side and  convincing  the  judge  of  the  truth,  that 
the  prisoner  was  very  ill,  and  his  friends  ready  to 
pay  for  his  treatment,  and  answer  for  his  reappear- 
ance in  court  when  he  should  be  able,  Jim  had  ob- 
tained permission  to  send  him  to  a  private  place. 

"  And  the  best  in  town,"  he  assured  me  eagerly. 

I  saw  the  four  trim  uniformed  young  fellows, 
headed  by  a  fine-featured,  kind,  sagacious-looking 
physician,  carrying  Bushrod  down  to  the  ambulance. 
They  went  lightly  and  skilfully  with  their  neat,  cov- 
ered stretcher;  and  when  they  had  driven  away  Jim 
said  to  me,  with  a  strong  effort  at  cheerfulness : 

"  Now,  he'll  be  all  right,  Miss  Carry.  We  will 
not  tell  anybody  about  it.  I  don't  see  why  we  need. 
I'll  write  to  Richmond  and  say  to  them  that  Bush 
is  here  with  me,  that  he's  sick,  not  able  to  travel." 

'  You  are  as  good  as  gold,  Jim,"  I  returned. 
"  What  about  the  people  at  the  office  ?  " 

Jim's  face  darkened.     "  I'll  just  let  'em  understand 


«f»  "The  Pity  of  It!"       •&        349 

that  he's  in  Virginia,  or  on  his  way  there,"  he  said. 
"  Hang  the  office,  anyhow !  It's  none  of  their 
business.  He  left  there  a  week  ago,  to  be  gone 
indefinitely." 

I  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  and  he  burst  out : 

"  DeWitt's  a  pleasant  enough  fellow.  /  haven't 
any  fault  to  find  with  him.  But  he  needn't  be  so 
self-righteous.  He  follows  the  lead  of  —  " 

He  broke  off,  flushing,  and  amended  lamely, 
"  That  is,  they  all  act  as  though  Bush  was  a  sort  of 
acknowledged  failure.  I'll  tell  them  as  near  nothing 
as  I  decently  can." 

"  Yes,"  I  agreed  gladly. 

"  I  don't  intend  to  ever  let  Bushrod  know  you  saw 
him  like  this,"  Jim  went  on.  "  It  couldn't  do  any 
good  —  such  a  humiliation  as  that  only  breaks  a 
fellow  down." 

I  was  choking.  "  Yes,"  I  whispered.  "  Oh,  no, 
—  never  tell  him." 

"  Don't  be  scared,  honey,"  added  Jim,  kindly. 
"  He's  in  bad  shape  now,  but  he'll  come  round  all 
right.  Bush  is  a  big  stout  fellow,  you  know;  and 
he's  been  on  more  than  one  tear  like  this,  before 
you  ever  saw  him." 

"  Not  like  this,  Jim.  I  don't  believe  —  I  —  " 
and  halting,  unable  to  continue,  I  held  out  to  my 
companion  the  current  number  of  the  Weekly. 

It  had  come  into  the  office  just  as  we  left,  and  I 
had  carried  it  unopened  in  my  hand  since. 

As  I  sat  waiting  in  the  lobby,  I  had  tried  to 
divert  my  mind  by  turning  over  its  pages;  and 
there  upon  one  of  them  I  found,  over  Bushrod's 
pseudonym,  and  with  a  wonderful  initial,  which 


350         «$»         The  Last  Word  *9» 

carried  an  incredible  load  of  pain  and  despair  within 
its  inch-square  space,  three  verses  called  — 

AN    INVOCATION 

Dear  my  Lord  Death,  hast  thou  called  me  ? 
Long  have  I  waited  to  spouse  thee, 
And  prayed,  but  no  prayers  would  arouse  thee  — 

Well-beloved  Death,  hast  thou  called  me? 

Lo,  my  Lord  Death,  I  am  ready, 

For  Life  it  hath  spurned  me  and  shamed  me, 
The  World  it  hath  shunned  me  and  blamed  me. 

Lo,  lovely  Death,  I  am  ready. 

Yea,  my  Lord  Death,  I  am  waiting, 

Waiting  the  kiss  of  my  lover, 

And  his  merciful  cloak  for  my  cover. 
Yea,  blessed  Death,  I  am  waiting. 

It  was  a  pitiful  little  coincidence  that,  when  Jim 
had  finished  reading  these  verses,  he  made  the  same 
comment  Bushrod  himself  had  made  when  handing 
to  me  those  first  lines  of  his. 

"  Fellow  must  have  felt  pretty  bad  when  he  wrote 
that,"  Jim  said,  huskily,  his  big  brown  eyes  filling 
with  tears,  his  lip  trembling,  while  his  hand 
clenched  shaking  on  the  magazine  with  the  grasp 
of  a  hurt  child. 

It  was  true  that  my  editor  had  not  seen  fit  to 
jest  as  much  as  usual  when  I  told  him  such  portion 
as  I  felt  I  could  tell  him  of  my  visit  to  the  Tombs. 
Yet  he  was  never,  at  best,  one  to  whom  I  could 
willingly  lay  bare  a  thing  like  this,  which  was  to  be 
held,  a  carefully  guarded  secret,  in  the  possession 
of  Jim  and  myself  for  many  days. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

"  The   Amazing   Marriage  ' 

"  Pipe  cat,  dance  mouse ! 
We'll  have  a  wedding  at  our  good  house." 

I  TOLD  myself  that  I  had  become  accustomed  to 
the  belief  that  all  was  indeed  finally  over  between 
Frank  and  me,  as  people  become  accustomed  to  the 
thought  of  death.  And  I  knew  perfectly,  down  in  the 
depths  of  my  soul,  that  no  one  ever  did  accustom 
himself  to  the  thought  of  death,  other  than  as  an 
abstraction,  or  really  believe  that  he  himself  should 
die.  The  pain  was,  I  thought,  less  acute,  less  press- 
ing and  choking,  because  Frank  was  away ;  and  was 
not.  absolutely  deadly,  because  he  was  going  to 
return. 

Endurance  —  resignation  —  I  could  never  com- 
pass that ;  but,  give  me  a  little  time  and  much  work, 
I  could  always  achieve  some  happiness. 

And  Jim's  news  of  Bushrod  had  been  so  very 
good,  that  that  last  insufferable  load  was  greatly 
lightened.  Every  day  I  saw  him,  at  the  office  or 
the  house,  maybe  only  for  a  few  moments;  and  he 
brought  me,  in  the  goodness  of  his  kind  heart,  all 
the  details  of  Bushrod's  condition  that  his  simple 
mind  could  grasp  or  carry. 

Our  patient  had  recovered  consciousness  on  the 
351 


The  Last  Word 


third  day;  and  appeared  to  be  getting-  well  most 
properly. 

At  this  point  I  asked  eagerly  if  I  might  go  to 
see  him,  along  with  Jim.  At  first  Jim  was  a  little 
embarrassed;  but  finally  his  frank  good  sense  pre- 
vailed over  hesitation,  and  he  spoke  to  me  like  a 
brother. 

"  You  see,  he's  getting  along  all  right,  so  far 
as  his  body  is  concerned,"  he  explained.  "  His  mind 
is  where  the  trouble  is.  He  don't  talk  —  he  hardly 
ever  speaks  —  only  to  say  '  I'm  all  right,  old  man/ 
or  '  God  bless  you/  or  '  Don't  bother  about  me.'  So 
I  don't  know,  and  the  hospital  people  do  not,  what 
he  really  thinks  or  believes.  There  is  something 
held  back.  He  hasn't  asked  yet  how  he  came  to  be 
in  the  hospital.  I  can't  tell,  you  know,  how  much 
he  remembers  —  where  he  began  to  forget." 

"  Yes  —  I  suppose,"  I  said  reluctantly. 

"  I  know  I'm  right,  Miss  Carry,"  Jim  insisted. 
"  I  know  how  Bush  thinks  of  you.  I  never  happened 
to  do  any  drinking,  but  —  well,  you  just  be  good 
and  wait  ;  Bush  has  to  be  well,  and  strong,  and  his 
old  self  before  he  sees  you.  And  it  won't  be  long. 
He's  doing  fine.  They  all  say  so  at  the  hospital." 

So  I  needs  must  be  content.  I  was  glad  to  think 
of  Bushrod,  mending,  and  coming  back  to  himself. 
Meantime,  since  Jim  told  me  he  should  be  in  New 
York  for  several  weeks  and  should  always  see 
Bushrod  every  day,  I  suddenly  made  up  my  mind 
to  go  away  somewhere  for  a  week  or  two,  to  make  if 
possible  a  break  in  the  icy  paralysis  which  was  set- 
tling upon  me,  to  work  out  my  problem,  to  patch 
and  rearrange  my  broken  life  edifice. 

I  had  never  asked  for  a  leave  before;  but  I  knew 


«$»       "The  Amazing  Marriage"     «$»     353 

my  request  came  at  an  inconvenient  season,  and  I 
approached  my  chief  with  a  respectful  deference 
which  was,  I  fear,  quite  foreign  to  my  usual  manner. 

Mr.  DeWitt  received  my  cap-in-hand  civilities 
with  unexpected  geniality,  and  remarked  with  ap- 
proval, as  he  graciously  accorded  the  desired  boon, 

"  It  seems  you  do  know  how  to  grind  an  axe  a 
bit,  when  it  is  an  implement  you  really  need  to  have 
sharpened.  I  do  not  doubt  that,  under  sufficient 
pressure,  you  would  develop  a  touch  of  blarney." 

The  closest  friend  I  ever  had,  and  one  of  the 
shrewdest,  wholesomest  characters  I  ever  knew,  used 
to  call  me  The  Cork  for  a  by-name,  because,  she 
said,  the  harder  I  was  plunged  to  the  very  bottom 
of  the  flood  of  pain  and  sorrow,  the  more  prompt 
and  vigorous  the  "  plop !  "  with  which  I  came  up. 

I  had  certainly  been  dwelling  beneath  the  waters 
of  pain  and  bereavement  for  some  time,  and  now 
there  occurred  a  small,  cheerful  plop. 

"  Huh!  "  I  cried,  with  much  more  independence 
(I  had  got  the  leave,  you  know),  "a  bigger  and 
better-looking  man  than  you  told  me  that,  and  more 
too,  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday." 

Mr.  DeWitt  bore  my  coarse  ingratitude  with  un- 
changed sweetness.  I  thought  he  was  rather  pleased 
to  see  so  much  spirit  in  me.  "  Indeed,"  he  returned, 
"both  bigger  and  better-looking?  Where  did  you 
discover  this  colossal  and  beautiful  creature?  " 

I  explained : 

"  He  stood  at  a  certain  corner  in  Brooklyn, 
where  I  used  to  take  a  car  every  day  when  I  boarded 
over  there.  It  is  a  place  where  cars  meet  and  pass ; 
whole  strings  of  them  go  along  on  one  line  awhile, 
and  then  branch  off  on  different  ones,  you  know." 


354        «**         The  Last  Word  ^ 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  DeWitt,  with  a  broad 
grin.  "  You've  a  fresh,  artless,  narrative  style." 

"  D'  ye  want  to  hear  this  thing,  or  not?"  I  de- 
manded, my  spirits  rising  as  I  proceeded. 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  he  returned,  pacifically. 

"  Well,  there  stood  there  a  big,  heavy  man  with 
a  rosy  face,  and  dimples  that  would  make  the  fortune 
of  a  professional  beauty,  wearing  a  long,  handsome 
overcoat  and  a  soft  hat,  and  with  a  thick  cane  in  his 
hand." 

"  Stoo'1  there  —  stood  there  ?  Was  this  a  graven 
image,  or  a  wooden  figure?" 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  "  he  seemed  to  be  what  Omar 
Khayyam  calls  '  The  master  of  the  show.'  He  made 
the  heavy  trucks  and  wagons  move  on;  he  stopped 
and  started  the  cars,  and  ordered  about  every 
wheeled  thing  on  the  street.  And  each  time,  when 
he  got  affairs  straightened  out,  he  would  wave  his 
stick  to  the  next  car  and  call,  'Come  up!  Come 
up!' 

"  Oh,  the  inspector,"  commented  my  listener. 

"  Yes,"  I  assented,  "  the  inspector.  One  day, 
when  he  had,  as  usual,  stopped  the  car  I  wanted, 
lifted  and  chucked  me  into  it  as  carefully  and  skil- 
fully, but  with  as  little  personal  notice,  as  though 
T  had  been  a  valuable  glass  article,  I  asked  the 
conductor,  '  Who  is  that  man  ?  Is  this  his  city  ?  ' 
The  conductor  laughed,  and  informed  me  that  the 
man  was  the  street-car  inspector  of  the  line. 

"  I  came  along  there  the  other  day  when  there 
was  a  tremendous  concourse  of  cars;  and  about 
every  four  seconds  this  big  bass  voice  was  calling 
out,  '  Come  up !  Come  up ! '  When  my  car  came 
in  sight  there  was  a  little  delay  in  getting  me  to  it, 


«$»       "The  Amazing  Marriage"     «9»     355 

and  I  seized  upon  the  occasion  to  say  to  the  man, 
'  I  want  you  to  get  St.  Peter's  job,  so  that  when 
I  come  to  apply  for  admittance  you  will  be  there 
to  look  good-humoured  and  say,  "  Come  up,  come 
up!" 

"  He  was  just  landing  me  in  the  car  as  I  promul- 
gated this;  and  he  looked  at  me  with  the  tickled 
astonishment  you  would  feel  if  one  of  the  inanimate 
objects  you  daily  handle  should  suddenly  rise  up 
and  make  jokes  at  you. 

"  He  turned  to  the  next  car,  shouted  '  Come  — ' 
glanced  back  at  me,  broke  out  laughing,  changed  it 
to  '  Move  up ! '  and  the  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was 
shaking  his  head,  and  the  dimples  were  dancing  in 
and  out  of  his  rosy  cheeks. 

"  I  came  past  there  yesterday,  and  the  minute  he 
caught  sight  of  me  he  began  to  laugh,  and  called 
out,  '  Oh,  you're  all  right !  You  don't  need  me  up 
there.  You'll  just  fire  a  joke  at  St.  Peter,  and 
while  he's  doubled  up  laughing,  in  you'll  go.  Yes, 
and  blarney  some  one  out  of  a  good  seat,  too,  I'll 
bet.' ' 

"Yes,  I  see;  as  you  did  me  (a  gentlemanly 
angel)  out  of  that  two  weeks'  leave  —  here  when 
there's  so  much  to  do,  and  we  are  already  short- 
handed.  But  do  not  be  too  puffed  up.  Don't  lay  it 
all  to  your  blandishments.  I  am  good-natured  this 
morning.  You  may  have  noticed  that  I  was  very 
complaisant  in  the  matter  of  the  leave,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Not  more  so  than  I  deserved !  "  I  broke  in 
hastily. 

"  You  may,  I  repeat,  have  noticed  it.     Did  it 


356         «9»         The  Last  Word  «£» 

not  occur  to  you  there  might  be  a  reason  for  it?  " 
he  inquired. 

"  Why,    aren't    my    just    deserts  "  —  I    began. 

"  You'd  better  thank  the  gods  you  never  get  'em 
—  at  least  in  this  office,"  he  declared,  testily. 

"Well,  you  were  about  to  say?"  I  ventured, 
civilly. 

"  I  was  about  to  tell  you  that  the  person  known 
to  your  betters  as  your  boss  is  going  to  have  a 
leave,  too,  a  long  one,"  he  announced. 

"You?"  I  cried,  "are  you  going  away?"  and 
I  sat  down  feeling  suddenly  rather  blank.  He 
nodded,  as  I  sat  looking  at  him,  realising  in  a  flash, 
as  I  had  not  yet  done,  how  extensively  Mr.  DeWitt 
figured  in  the  practical  aspect  of  my  life  here  in 
New  York.  I  had  always  had  his  acute,  kindly 
criticism,  his  discriminating  judgment.  He  had 
resolutely  held  me  to  the  best  I  could  do,  willing 
to  accept  of  me,  or  for  me,  nothing  less.  This  many- 
sided  man  turned  always  toward  me  a  side  wholly 
good  and  healthful  and  tonic.  Whatever  pain  and 
error  and  disappointment  had  come  into  my  life 
here  in  New  York,  it  had  never  had  any  relation  to 
my  work  or  its  doing.  There,  all  had  been  fair  and 
hopeful  and  satisfactory;  and  this  it  seemed  to  me 
was  largely  attributable  to  Mr.  DeWitt's  clever 
intuition  and  admirable  management.  Already  be- 
reft and  darkened,  what  a  heartbreakingly  desolate 
place  the  editorial  office  would  be  to  me  without  his 
bright,  keen,  spirited  face,  and  alert,  well-groomed 
figure,  his  cool,  capable,  restful  personality,  to 
relieve  its  gloom. 

"Are  you  going  soon?"  I  asked,  rather  feebly. 
"  I  hope  it  won't  be  before  I  get  off  to  Texas." 


«$»       "The  Amazing  Marriage"     «f»     357 

"  I  think  it  will,"  he  hesitated.  "  It  is  a  European 
trip  —  quite  an  extended  tour  —  and  we  have  moved 
forward  the  date,  rather  unexpectedly.  Some  cir- 
cumstances "  — 

I  undoubtedly  lack  many  feminine  virtues,  and 
am  free  from  a  few  feminine  vices ;  but  I  was  woman 
enough  to  see  in  this  ambiguous  phraseology  the 
portent  of  a  wedding  journey.  "  I  believe,"  I  cried, 
with  sudden  inspiration,  "  that  you  are  going  to  be 
married !  " 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  believe  so  too,"  he  re- 
sponded confidentially. 

"  Who  "  —  I  began,  and  he  interrupted. 

"  I  supposed  you  had  been  told  of  the  engagement 
when  you  were  there  last  month." 

My  mind  whirled  rapidly.  "There?"  Where 
had  I  been  ? 

"  Who,"  I  urged,  "  who  has  been  mad 
enough  —  " 

"  Miss  Salem  and  I  were  speaking  of  you,"  he 
pursued  gravely,  "  of  some  plans  for  your  work 
when  we  return ;  and  I  got  the  impression  that  she 
had  told  you." 

"Miss  Salem?"  I  repeated  densely,  "what  has 
she  to  do  with  it?" 

"  She  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it,"  said  Mr. 
DeWitt,  in  a  very  quiet  tone.  "  We  are  to  be  pri- 
vately married  next  week,  instead  of  in  January, 
as  was  at  first  intended.  We  shall  be  abroad  three 
months,  and  when  we  come  back  the  new  magazine 
is  to  be  started.  It  was  in  connection  with  the  maga- 
zine that  we  were  speaking  of  you." 

Miss  Salem!     The  absolute  astonishment  in  my 


358         <&         The  Last  Word  <&> 

mind,  the  turmoil  of  ideas  and  thoughts  which  burst 
in  upon  it,  forbade  speech. 

He  thought  she  had  told  me  of  the  engagement, 
the  approaching  marriage,  while  I  was  staying  with 
her  at  the  hotel.  The  suggestion  brought  vividly  to 
me  the  remembrance  of  that  one  night's  intimate 
talk,  which  had  made  me  really  know  Priscilla 
Salem.  And  as  I  recollected  it  all,  in  the  light  of 
this  announcement,  her  disquiet,  her  uncertainty 
and  smothered  apprehension  were  illuminated  for 
me. 

He  had  —  choosing  one  of  the  two  courses  open 
to  him  in  the  matter  —  elected  to  make  his  announce- 
ment without  even  a  conventional  pretence  of  senti- 
ment. I  recalled  her  voice,  with  its  deep  tones  of 
human  kindness  and  tenderness;  her  face,  as  it 
showed  in  the  gray  morning  twilight  full  of  emo- 
tional promise  and  possibilities,  and  wearing  already 
the  pathetic  prophecy  of  age.  The  story  of  the 
statuette  came  back  to  me,  importunate  with  its  illus- 
tration. Here,  then,  was  her  little  plaster  Eros  — 
her  bogus  Love.  And  she  was  paying  for  it  all  she 
had  —  all  she  was  —  as  I  had  divined  she  could. 
Apparently,  she  had  not  even  had  the  heart  to  tell 
me,  but  had  left  it  to  come  to  me  thus. 

Mr.  DeWitt's  voice  suddenly  recalled  me  to  the 
situation,  as  I  sat  staring  past  him  into  blank  space. 

"  Your  remarks  are  hardly  polite,  Miss  West." 

I  started  guiltily. 

"  I  make  no  comment  upon  the  absence  of  con- 
gratulations," —  and  the  ugly  little  sneer  I  hated 
was  in  his  voice  and  around  his  mouth,  —  "  but  the 
amenities  (might  I  say  the  decencies?)  of  life  are 


«$»       "The  Amazing  Marriage"     <9>     359 

discredited,  or  at  least  seriously  blown  upon,  by  such 
sincere  and  outspoken  rudeness.  Well  ?  " 

I  searched  clumsily  and  hastily  through  all  the 
available  spaces  of  my  consciousness  for  one  thing 
to  say  to  him  —  one  thing  that  I  could  say  —  and 
sat  there  silent,  the  blood  surging  steadily  to  my  face 
until  it  burned  painfully  beneath  his  deliberately 
inquiring  glance. 

To  say,  "  I  congratulate  you  both,  and  wish  you 
all  the  happiness  you  deserve,"  when  I  knew,  when 
I  saw  as  plainly  as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  pack- 
ing oranges  in  a  box,  that  only  that  in  him  which 
was  least  good,  least  worthy  of  respect,  went  into 
this  marriage,  and  when  he  himself  showed  me 
he  knew  I  saw  it  —  I  could  not.  The  words  stuck, 
not  in  my  throat,  but  back  in  my  consciousness, 
before  even  they  could  be  formed. 

When  the  silence  became  insupportable,  I  finally 
blundered  out,  "  You  must  excuse  me  —  " 

"  This  is  what  I  have  been  doing/'  murmured  Mr. 
DeWitt  courteously. 

My  face  burned  afresh,  and  I  struggled  on. 
"  But  I  was  so  surprised  —  I  never  thought  of  such 
a  thing  "  —  and  I  lapsed  again  into  a  discouraged 
silence,  aware  that  my  remark  suggested  only  how 
thoroughly  I  felt  the  unsuitability  of  the  match.  I 
was  in  no  way  helped  by  Mr.  DeWitt's  composed 
voice,  quietly  pursuing  this  line  of  comment.  "  Oh, 
certainly,  it  is  plain  that  the  thing  strikes  you  as 
preposterous.  You  "  — 

"  Mr.  DeWitt !  "  I  cried  in  distress.  "  Of  course 
you  can  utterly  put  me  to  rout  at  this  sort  of  thing; 
you  always  could;  I  am  not  quick  or  clever.  You 


360        «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

can  easily  make  me  seem  a  fool  —  an  offensive 
fool.    But  do  you  want  to  do  it  ?  " 

Mr.  DeWitt's  sneering  mood  fell  away  before 
this  direct  appeal,  as  I  had  not  believed  it  could. 
"  Indeed  I  do  not,"  he  answered  with  hearty  kind- 
ness, and  he  reached  his  hand  toward  me ;  a  simple, 
natural  thing  I  had  not  had  the  wit  to  think  of 
doing. 

"  Besides,"  I  added,  as  I  gladly  took  the  offered 
hand,  "  what  earthly  difference  does  it  make  what 
I  think  —  what  sort  of  views  or  ideas  I  hold?  " 

"  Why,  as  you  infer,  none  in  the  world  —  one 
would  say.  And  yet  —  Well,  I  feel,  somewhere  in 
me,  a  laughable  necessity  to  be  understood." 

And  I  was  well  aware  that  it  was  not  by  me  that 
he  needed  to  be  understood;  I  had  only  offended 
him  by  understanding  him  too  well.  It  was  before 
that  better  self  of  his  which  he  had  always  shown 
me,  and  which  I,  therefore,  in  a  sense  represented, 
and  gave  back  to  him,  that  he  sought  uneasily  to 
be  justified. 

I  rose  to  go,  saying  that  I  should  see  Miss  Salem 
that  afternoon,  and  that  I  was  very  glad  he  had 
told  me.  We  were  once  more  good  friends. 

"  Tell  me,"  began  he,  abruptly,  with  that  air  of 
pushing  aside  conventionalities  and  going  to  the 
heart  of  things,  which  had  always  been  between 
Mr.  DeWitt  and  me  a  possibility,  one  lacking  in  the 
relations  between  me  and  many  an  older  friend, 
"  tell  me  —  when  you  come  sidling,  red  and  silent, 
into  the  office,  with  your  finger  in  your  mouth,  to 
confess  to  me  that  you  have  determined  to  commit 
matrimony  —  oh,  you  will  do  it  sooner  or  later !  — 
and  I  am  coldly  silent  or  openly  disapproving  (I 


«$»       "The  Amazing  Marriage"     «$»     361 

shall  be),  I  should  just  like  to  inquire,  as  a  matter 
of  curiosity,  not  for  purposes  of  publication  at  all, 
but  between  ourselves  as  man  and  man  —  tell  me 
what  reason,  what  excuse  you  will  offer." 

Whatever  had  prompted  Mr.  DeWitt  to  ask  me 
such  a  question,  whatever  he  might  know  or  guess, 
or  think,  I  at  least  had,  as  always,  no  thought  but 
to  stand  by  my  guns.  If  he  even  misdoubted  that 
I  lacked  the  courage  of  my  beliefs,  or  thought  to 
find  me  in  this  timid  of  my  views,  he  was  mistaken. 
His  words  struck  out,  like  a  blow,  one  of  the  con- 
victions, which,  through  whatever  doubt  and  pain 
and  error,  never  failed  me. 

"  My  excuse  will  be  the  only  one  there  is,"  I 
returned,  steadily,  though  I  felt  the  red  again  rising 
in  my  face.  "Love!"  and  my  eyes  smarted  and 
my  throat  ached. 

Mr.  DeWitt  looked  down  at  the  proof  sheets 
before  him.  I  took  breath  and  repeated : 

"  Love  —  love.  What  all  the  world  is  seeking  — 
what  it's  starving  and  freezing  for  —  the  founda- 
tion of  all  practical  life  —  the  bottom  plank  of  all 
human  building  —  the  only  key  to  unlock,  the  only 
door  which  gives  access  to,  all  other  good,  comfort, 
advancement,  all  permanent  welfare,  happiness,  prog- 
ress. I  would  marry  for  love,"  I  said,  "  with 
love;  only  with  and  for  and  because  of  love,"  and 
I  looked  up  at  him  unflinchingly. 

"  Yes,"  he  agreed,  soberly,  "  and  where  will  you 
find  it?" 

I  knew  then  that  he  was  quite  ignorant  of  my 
love  affairs,  quite  innocent  of  ulterior  meaning  when 
he  began  to  question  me. 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  haltingly,  for  the  aching  in 


362         «f»         The  Last  Word  <®> 

my  throat  increased,  and  my  eyes  were  rilling,  "  it 
—  it  is  here,"  touching  my  own  breast.  "  I  have 
conceived  it  —  it  is  mine ;  and  so  it  must  exist 
also  somewhere  else.  But  —  but  say  I  never  find 
it  in  another.  Shall  I  therefore  content  myself  with 
less  —  abjure  it  —  throw  it  away  —  place  myself 
where  it  is  no  longer  possible  for  me  to  have  it, 
though  conceiving  it  and  believing  in  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  he  hesitated,  a  little  wistfully,  "  for 
you  "  — 

"  Oh,  for  me !  "  I  said.  "  Why  not  for  you,  or  for 
any  soul  that  will  not  accept  less?  Nobody  but 
Justin  DeWitt  sets  your  limitations.  No  one,  no 
thing  —  save  yourself  —  can  compel  you  to  a  lower 
place  at  the  spirit's  table." 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,"  he  assented,  not  unkindly,  but 
wearily.  "  It  is  all  one  with  having  ideals,  and 
living  up  to  them.  Living  up  is  tiresome  work,  Miss 
West,"  and  he  smiled  at  me  deprecatingly. 

"  Well  —  well  —  well.  We  all  have  our  vanities. 
Mine  is  the  career  I  have  chosen.  It  is  the  thing 
I  can  do.  I'll  strike  a  good  sort  of  gait,  —  you 
know  I  can  do  that,  —  and  keep  pretty  well  up  to 
the  head  of  the  procession.  And  —  I  care  for  it, 
you  know." 

"  About  yourself  —  you  are  right.  Anything  else 
would  be  intolerable  to  you.  You  must  seek  it ;  I'm 
glad  you  do."  And  he  looked  at  me  with  a  surpris- 
ing, half-wistful  kindliness  and  sweetness,  then 
added,  with  his  inevitable  humour,  "  It's  a  —  well, 
there  should  be  some  one  about  the  office  who  does 
that  sort  of  thing.  It  is  —  as  you  say  —  a  thing 
that  don't  need  finding."  Again  he  held  out  his  hand. 


«$»       "The  Amazing  Marriage"     «f»     363 

"  Trot  along  then  and  seek  it,  and  take  a  sinful 
man's  blessing  with  you." 

I  had  been  on  the  verge  of  sobs  more  than  once 
during  the  latter  part  of  this  talk.  Now,  as  I 
looked  up,  I  saw,  with  a  shock  of  surprise  that  was 
almost  terror,  that  my  editor's  keen,  brilliant  eyes 
were  swimming  with  unshed  tears. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

The   Pun   Therapeutic 

"  The  good  and  great  will  ever  shun 
That  shameless  and  abandoned  one 
Who  stoops  to  perpetrate  a  pun." 

FOR  some  uncertain  period  after  I  left  Mr.  DeWitt 
I  was  swamped.  I  walked  aimlessly,  seeing  not 
whither. 

But  when  I  got  righted  a  bit,  got  the  sea  water 
out  of  my  eyes  and  began  to  take  stock  of  the 
situation,  the  thought  of  Genevieve  flashed  upon  me. 
It  was  an  hour  when  she  was  always  at  her  desk  in 
the  office.  Her  place  there  had  been  vacant.  I  was 
instinctively  aware  that  she  had  received  the 
announcement  of  the  approaching  marriage,  and, 
finding  some  pretext,  had  crept  away  to  work  out 
her  little  sum. 

Should  I  go  to  her?  Could  I  help  her  at  all  to 
set  the  figures  straight  —  to  find  possible  errors  ? 
Could  I  point  out  to  her  where  she  had  failed  to 
"  carry  one?  "  Could  any  one  ever  do  any  of  these 
things  for  another?  And  if  one  could,  and  could 
thereby  bring  the  correct  answer,  the  true  solution, 
would  it  be  well  ?  Would  it  be,  to  the  one  so  helped, 
a  present  help  and  an  eventual  hindrance  and  injury  ? 

When  I  arrived  at  the  end  of  all  this  debatement, 
364 


«9»          The  Pun  Therapeutic       «e»       365 

I  found  myself  mounting  the  steps  to  Genevieve's 
room. 

"  Who  is  it  ? "  her  voice  inquired,  when  I 
knocked. 

"  Genevieve,  it  is  I,"  I  answered. 

"  Oh!    Come  in,  then,"  said  she. 

I  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in,  then  drew 
back  to  close  it  and  go  away. 

"  Oh,  no,  don't  do  that.  Come  in,"  Genevieve 
repeated.  She  was  sitting  at  the  table,  her  arms 
thrown  out  on  it,  her  head  laid  down  sidewise  upon 
them.  She  had  evidently  wept  herself  into  a  state 
of  exhaustion.  The  visage,  turned  toward  me,  was 
ashen  and  drawn,  the  great,  soft,  tan-coloured  eyes 
swollen  and  inflamed.  This  was  the  girl  at  whom  I 
had  raged  for  being  cold  as  a  fish. 

"  Sit  down.  I  am  so  glad  you  came.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  I  will  go  bathe  my  face,"  declared 
this  surprising  young  woman.  In  the  doorway  she 
turned  her  pale  countenance  and  tragic  eyes  a  mo- 
ment toward  me,  and  added,  with  a  little  catch  of  a 
laugh,  "  I  suppose  I  am  some  sort  of  salt  water  fish 
to-day.  I  certainly  do  seem  to  swim  in  it !  " 

I  could  hear  her  splashing  heartily,  manfully; 
and  presently,  glancing  through  the  doorway,  I  saw 
her  vigorously  towelling  her  face,  so  like  Genevieve 
and  so  unlike  a  weeping  woman's  dabbing,  flinch- 
ing action. 

"  There,"  she  announced,  coming  back,  "  I  proba- 
bly look  less  like  a  fool,  and  more  like  a  human 
being." 

It  was  Genevieve's  way,  too,  to  take  hold  of 
the  situation  as  though  the  unacknowledged  under- 


366         «f»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

standing  between  us  had  been  an  openly  expressed 
one. 

"  You  think,"  she  began,  very  quietly,  "  that  I  am 
acting  like  a  fool  now;  but  I  give  you  my  word, 
these  are  my  first  sane  and  sensible  moments  for 
months." 

"  You  do  me  good !  "  I  cried. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  through  —  I  am  done.  I  have 
cried  my  eyes  out,  and  there's  an  end." 

"  I'm  sorry  I  am  going  back  to  Texas  so  soon," 
I  observed,  with  some  vague  impression  that  I  had 
just  met  Genevieve  and  would  like  to  pursue  the 
acquaintance. 

"  I  am  sorry,  too,"  she  answered,  simply. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  with  me?  "I  exclaimed, 
impulsively. 

Genevieve  laughed  —  actually  laughed.  "  What  a 
baby  you  must  take  me  for,"  she  commented.  "  Run 
away!  No,  indeed.  My  work  is  here.  My  place 
is  here.  Nothing  is  changed." 

"  No,"  I  agreed,  hesitatingly,  "  I  believe  you  are 
right." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  wonder,"  she  re- 
marked, consideringly,  "  that  you  take  me  for  a 
spineless  imbecile.  You  have  never  seen  anything 
in  me  to  suggest  the  contrary.  You  do  not  even 
know  how  abject  an  idiot  I  have  been.  Why,  Miss 
West,  I  had  come  to  have  so  little  confidence  in  —  so 
little  respect  for  —  myself,  my  own  force  and  dig- 
nity, that  I  almost  thought  the  only  thing  to  do 
was  to  run  away  —  away  from  my  own  silliness  and 
weakness,  you  know!  About  two  weeks  ago,  I 
had  an  ofifer  from  the  Ladies'  Work  Basket  people 
and  was  for  days  on  the  point  of  accepting  it." 


«f»          The  Pun  Therapeutic       «$»       367 

"  I  suppose  they  are  sound,"  I  ventured,  "  arid  — 
and  pay  pretty  well." 

"  Sound !  Yes,  they  are  sound ;  and  they  offered 
me  a  fair  salary.  Miss  West,  you  do  not  know  —  I 
will  warrant  you  have  not  an  idea  —  what  my 
qualifications  are,  what  I  was  brought  over  here 
to  do.  Have  you?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  I  admitted,  "  I  supposed  your  fashion 
work  —  " 

"  Fashions !  "  flung  out  Genevieve.  "  But  I  can- 
not wonder.  •  And  I  imagine  what  my  people  would 
think  of  me  set  to  edit  a  household  paper !  '  How 
to  Take  out  Ink  Stains/  'A  Pretty  Pink 
Luncheon ! ' 

"  But,  Genevieve  —  " 

"  Wait,"  she  interrupted  me,  quietly.  "  Miss 
West,  I  was  brought  over  here  to  edit  and  revise 
scientific  text-books.  I  was  supposed  (when  Miss 
Salem  met  me  at  my  uncle's,  in  Oxford  —  he  is  one 
of  the  lecturers  at  Magdalen)  to  be  quite  a  coming 
person  in  biology." 

I  was  as  astounded  as  though  Genevieve  had  told 
me  she  was  a  consummate  tight-rope  performer.  I 
gazed  at  her  a  moment,  fairly  open-mouth,  then 
sat  down  feebly. 

It  all  came  over  me  with  a  rush.  The  past  months 
with  Genevieve  were  illuminated.  There  was  no 
longer  anything  really  queer  about  her.  She  had 
only  been  made  to  seem  queer  by  being  placed  in 
such  a  false  position  toward  her  whole  world. 

I  could  see  it  all  now,  how  she  had  brought  to 
the  writing  of  fashion  articles  the  scientific  mind, 
scientific  methods,  and  training.  Her  intense  un- 
swerving literalness  had  been  just  this.  This  was 


368         *&       The  Last  Word 


the  root  of  her  clearness,  brevity,  and  directness,  that 
style  which  I  had  said  sat  as  appropriately  upon  her 
fashion  articles  as  a  suit  of  chain  armour  on  a  ballet- 
dancer. 

And,  after  all.  how  perfectly  natural.  Miss  Bucks 
was  the  sort  of  person  who,  if  she  were  not  actually 
engaged  in  doing  a  thing  —  in  showing  it  forth  - 
simply  sunk  it.  There  was  no  boast,  no  advertise- 
ment to  her.  Indeed,  her  attainments  and  abili- 
ties seemed  detached  from  and  of  too  small  impor- 
tance to  her. 

"  But  why  in  the  world  did  Miss  Salem  bring  over 
such  a  light  as  you  to  write  fashion  stuff  ?  Couldn't 
she  find  any  home-bred  stock,  that  she  should  put 
Pegasus  to  plough  in  that  sort  of  style?  "  I  asked. 

"  Miss  Salem  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  re- 
turned Genevieve,  energetically.  "  I  have  always 
felt  that  she  was  disappointed,  if  not  disgusted  with 
me;  she  had  good  cause  to  be.  When  I  came  in, 
Mr.  DeWitt  was  running  in  the  weekly  service  a 
series  of  articles  they  called  Popular  Astronomy. 
My  affairs  were  not  just  ready;  so,  for  the  mo- 
ment I  was  set  to  revise  this  astronomy  stuff  —  it 
needed  it. 

"  He  was  having  continual  trouble  with  his 
fashion  and  household  departments;  there  were 
unreliable  people  in  them.  So  he  asked  me  one  Jay 
if  there  was  anything  about  the  work  I  could  —  and 
would  —  help  with." 

I  grinned  irrepressibly. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Genevieve,  "  I  was  as  well 
suited  to  do  such  stuff  as  the  woman  he  had  at  it 
would  have  been  to  do  my  scientific  writing  —  as 
you  were  to  do  the  various  stupid  things  he  asked 


^»          The  Pun  Therapeutic       «$>       369 

of  you  from  time  to  time.  But  the  difference  be- 
tween us  was  that  if  he  had  asked  me  to  scrub  the 
office  floor,  I  should  have  scrubbed  it  —  and  scrubbed 
it  to  his  taste  —  and  probably  have  blacked  his  boots 
for  good  measure." 

"  Don't,  Genevieve !  "  I  ejaculated. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  hurt  in  the  least,"  she  smiled, 
calmly.  "  A  small  brother  of  mine  used  to  tell  a 
story  of  a  '  natiff  nigger,'  who  was  found  by  a  mis- 
sionary pounding  his  finger  with  a  stone,  and  who 
explained  that  he  did  it  because  it  felt  so  good  when 
he  left  off.  I  have  left  off,  and  I  feel  very  comfort- 
able, indeed." 

I  found  myself  more  and  more  inclined  to  pursue 
Genevieve's  acquaintance. 

"  So  I  am  going  to  remain  just  here,  and  do 
the  work  I  came  to  do.  To  show  him?  To  show 
them?  No,  indeed.  Because  it  is  the  work  which 
suits  me.  I  can  do  it  well,  and  in  it  lies  my  sal- 
vation and  my  hope  of  success.  I  could  go  home, 
but  such  work  is  much  better  paid  in  the  United 
States  than  at  home  "  — 

I  laughed  out,  hopefully. 

Genevieve  smiled.  "  Father  always  said  that  I 
had  not  an  ounce  of  worldly  wisdom;  but  I  think 
I  am  quite  able  to  tell  upon  which  side  my  bread  is 
buttered,"  she  observed,  with  infantile  shrewdness. 

Genevieve's  "  worldly  wisdom  "  brought  to  my 
mind  a  little  talk  with  Mr.  DeWitt,  nearly  a  year 
ago.  He  had  used  the  phrase  then,  and  "  Worldly 
wisdom !  "  I  retorted,  "  what  is  that,  to  your  think- 
ing?" 

"  Well,"  he  expounded,  looking  at  me  with  slightly 
narrowed  eyes,  "  it  is  something  which  is  apt  to  be 


370        «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

pronounced  by  the  young  and  untried  palate  ex- 
tremely bitter.  But  it  is : —  owing  to  this  evil 
vapour  which  is  our  atmosphere  —  very  wholesome, 
not  to  say  necessary;  like  quinine,  you  know,  in 
the  jungles  of  Africa.  It  is  rarely  to  be  found  in 
small  and  quiet  places,  or,  indeed,  anywhere  away 
from  the  great  centres  of  life." 

"  And  therefore  I  came  for  it  to  New  York  ?  "  I 
suggested. 

He  nodded,  and  went  on,  "  It  is  a  thing  that  can- 
not be  purchased  with  money  at  the  apothecary's; 
it  is  only  to  be  had  in  exchange  for  cherished  ideals, 
youthful  illusions,  a  believing  heart,  and  such  like 
toys.  But,"  with  a  little  laugh,  "  let  them  go,  let 
them  all  go  —  that's  a  plucky  girl !  Never  com- 
plain of  emptiness  and  loss,  when  you've  made 
your  trade.  You  won't,  I  know.  We'll  never  be 
called  upon  to  listen  to  your  lamentations  over  the 
rifled  caskets  of  these  your  young  treasures.  For 
they  are  worse  than  useless,  positively  detrimental, 
and  you  have  the  sense  to  see  this,  and  the  courage 
to  admit  it  to  yourself.  They  will  only  handicap  you 
in  the  fierce  race;  while  this  same  worldly  wisdom 
is  a  precious  commodity,  possessing  which  nearly 
all  other  things  can  be  attained  —  save  those  which 
went  to  buy  it." 

Now,  I  told  Miss  Bucks  something  of  this. 
"  Genevieve,"  I  said,  "  Mr.  DeWitt  has  manifested 
that  which  he  calls  worldly  wisdom  pretty  fully. 
And  what  a  pitiful  thing  it  is.  How  poor  it  makes 
him.  He  premises  that  it  is  bitter;  he  admits  that 
he  must  pay  for  it  what  one  most  loves  and  values 
(along  with  some  trash)  and  we  are  glad  we  haven't 
it  —  aren't  we?  " 


«Q»         The  Pun  Therapeutic       «f»       371 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,"  returned  Genevieve,  absently. 
"  I  think  I  have  enough,  of  the  decenter  sort,  to  get 
on  with." 

I  saw  with  surprise  that  she  was  less  interested  in 
Justin  DeWitt,  his  theories  and  his  life,  than  I. 
I  had  not  believed  it  in  feminine  nature  to  turn  so 
promptly  and  completely  away  from  sentimental 
disaster.  Her  attitude  was  wholly  male. 

Presently  she  remarked,  "  I  was  always  supposed 
to  be  a  hard-working  person,  with  some  abilities  and 
very  little  sentiment.  I  thought  this,  honestly,  my- 
self. Now,  it  appears  there  was  what  I  have  heard 
you  describe  in  others  as  '  a  fool  streak,'  which  had 
to  be  worked  out  of  me.  I  have  had  my  lesson.  It 
is  over  and  done  with,  and  it  is  a  glad  woman  I 
am." 

"  Genevieve,  Genevieve!  "  I  said;  "  it's  what  we 
all  have  to  have  some  time.  It's  the  only  way  we 
can  learn.  We  must  be  taught  by  Life  herself; 
kindly,  and  with  monishings,  if  we  will  learn  so; 
harshly,  and  with  birchings,  if  they  are  necessary." 

"  Oh,  I  needed  what  you  call  the  '  birchings/  ' 
interrupted    Genevieve   calmly.      "  I    had   to   have 
them,  and  liberally,  too." 

"  I  believe  every  plucky  youngster  in  Life's 
school  does,"  I  declared.  "  And  do  you  know,  I'm 
coming  to  think  that  those  lessons  which  were  most 
sternly  taught  are  not  only  most  valuable,  but  ac- 
tually dearest  in  the  retrospect." 

"  Agreed !  "  echoed  Genevieve,  in  this  new,  deep, 
hearty  tone  of  her  fine  voice.  "  Oh,  I  agree  with 
you  there." 

"  All  honour  the  birch,  then,"  I  cried ;  "  deep  may 


372         «9»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

its  roots  strike,  high  may  its  branches  wave  above 
its  fellows  in  the  forest!  For  me,  Genevieve,  I 
would  not  —  no,  I  would  not  —  have  been  spared 
one  thwack  that  I  have  gotten  in  the  wholesome 
fray,  nor  call  back  one  dear  folly  which  I  have  lost. 

"  Because  they  have  taken  away  what  was  to  me 
my  fine  white  bread  and  red  wine,  shall  I  therefore 
refuse  the  oaten  cake  and  the  homely  ale?  No,  no, 
I  am  a  hungry  creature,  I  do  not  like  to  go  fasting 
and  sorrowful,  for  so  I  am  a  grief  to  myself  and 
those  about  me.  Since  those  things  are  gone,  since 
I  must  not  by  any  means  have  them  back,"  and  now 
the  blessed  tears  were  running  down  my  face,  "  I 
will  no  longer  consider  them,  but  eat  the  more  of 
the  honest  black  bread,  and  drink  more  deeply  the 
wholesome  bitter  of  the  ale,  and  —  and  fare  the 
further  daily,  that  I  may  sleep  at  night,  despite 
remembrance  which  follows  me." 

"  What  a  gift  you  have  for  putting  things  poeti- 
cally," exclaimed  Genevieve;  "you  people  who  are 
imaginative  writers  can  —  fortunately  for  you  — 
get  your  ideas  of  despair  at  second-hand." 

"  Imaginative  writers,  is  it ! "  I  echoed,  and 
laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "  My  dear  Genevieve,  do 
not  deceive  yourself.  It  is  the  qualification  I  lack 
—  imagination.  Don't  you  know  that  every  human 
soul  that  amounts  to  shucks  has  been  led  —  by  some 
compulsion  or  other  —  all  along  this  pathway  that 
we  —  that  you  —  have  been  treading  ?  Why,  some 
of  them,  that  won't  learn,  go  tramping  up  and  down 
it  with  bleeding  feet  the  greater  part  of  their  lives. 
You  credit  me  with  much  imagination,  Genevieve. 
I  could  never  write  one  convincing  word  about  tooth- 


«$»          The  Pun  Therapeutic       «$»       373 

ache,  save  as  I  had  writhed  in  the  most  fell  and 
deadly  throes  of  toothache." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  I  never  supposed  so  of  you,"  re- 
marked Genevieve. 

"  But  it  is  even  as  I  say,"  I  returned.  "  And 
for  despair — why,  pray,  should  one  despair?  While 
there  is  life  in  your  body,  light  in  your  brain,  there 
is  the  same  chance  there  always  was.  The  world, 
I  find,  moves  on  while  you  stop  to  take  stock  of 
your  bruises  and  the  thumps  which  stunned  you; 
it  holds  blithely  and  busily  and  grandly  and  terribly 
and  wholesomely  to  its  way.  Will  you  go  —  will 
you  go?  Quick!  Oh,  yes,  I'll  go.  Every  pulse 
answers  yes  to  the  stirring  invitation.  D'ye  think 
I'll  ever  sit  in  useless  twilight  and  inert  sadness? 
Not  I,  when  I  can  help  it.  /'//  go.  And  though 
I  might  stagger  to  the  starting-place,  yes,  though  I 
should  limp  miserably  at  the  outset,  I  tell  you  it 
would  not  be  long ;  for  my  feet,  —  these  feet  that 
have  dallied  along  the  little  tender,  shaded,  silence- 
haunted  pathway  of  the  Ideal,  to  their  own  wound- 
ing —  they  love  the  pace.  My  whole  nature  loves 
the  air  of  labour,  of  effort,  and  the  stirring  com- 
panionship of  my  friendly  foe.  It  leaps  into  the 
refreshing  sweep  of  competition,  rivalry,  the  square 
fight  where  no  odds  is  given,  but  honest  blow  for 
blow." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Genevieve,  "  that  is  all  right. 
To  every  man  his  method.  You  fight  with  a  weapon, 
my  dear  Cara,  I  work  with  a  tool ;  you  come  to  Life's 
convention  with  whoops  and  hurrahs,  riding  upon 
one  of  those  bronchos ;  and  if  I  go  there  on  foot,  it 
is  because  that  is  my  way,  and  I  shall  arrive  none 
the  less  certainly." 


374         *^*         The  Last  Word  «£» 

"  Pretty  good !  "  I  commented.  "  '  Life's  conven- 
tion '  —  '  whoops  and  hurrahs  '  —  '  fight  with  a 
weapon '  and  '  work  with  a  tool ! '  Talk  about 
'  imaginative  writers ! '  You  remind  me  of  the  old 
woman  '  who  wasn't  no  arithmeticker,  but  was  some 
on  riggers  o'  speech.' 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  rope  my  broncho  (you're  sure  he 
isn't  a  donkey?  Oh,  say  it  isn't  a  donkey!)  immedi- 
ately; I  have  some  stuff  to  get  up  before  I  leave; 
and  he  is  my  Pegasus,  I  suppose  —  or  my  '  pony,'  or 
my  hobby,  or  my  pack-horse  —  and  I  need  him  this 
minute." 

After  I  had  closed  the  door,  I  opened  it  again  and 
poked  my  head  inside. 

"  Oh,  Genevieve!  "  I  called.  "  Here  is  a  paradox 
you  have  made.  '  One  of  those  bronchos  '  is  the 
most  incorrigible  of  originals.  He  is  informal,  you 
know,  irregular,  aberrant,  not  to  say  egregious. 
Would  he  —  in  such  circumstances  as  you  describe 
in  your  recent  burst  of  metaphor  —  could  he  become, 
or  be  denominated,  a  conventional  steed  ?  " 

Genevieve  looked  at  me  blankly  a  moment;  then 
her  pale  face  with  its  pitiful  swollen  eyes  broke  into 
laughter,  and  s'he  cried  delightedly,  "  It  is  a  pun ! 
Oh,  isn't  it  a  funny  one !  If  you  ride  him  to  a  con- 
vention —  oh,  yes  —  can  he  be  called  a  conventional 
—  oh,  isn't  it  funny!" 

She  added  with  admiration  and  envy,  "  I  never 
could  make  them."  And  I  shut  the  door  upon  her 
laughing  "  How  funny !  " 

"  What  says  the  poet  ?  "  I  murmured,  as  I  went 
down-stairs,  "  '  Nothing  useless  is  or  low  '  —  no,  not 
even  a  pun.  But  who  (save  me)  would  have  thought 


«$»          The  Pun  Therapeutic       «$»       375 

of  it  as  an  antidote  for  blighted  affections?     No- 
body, I'll  warrant. 

"  But  who  shall  make  me  a  pun,  to  ease  this 
aching  in  my  left  side?  It  is  the  physician  who 
cannot  heal  himself." 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

A   Bridge   of  Days 

"  And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus 
Who  have  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth,  and  woe  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  —  Say  nay  1 " 

IT  was  late  November.  I  had  picked  up  a  brown 
leaf  —  the  last  of  the  falling  year  —  in  the  street  on 
my  way  down  to  the  office.  There  was  no  tree  in 
sight;  it  had  come  far  from  its  place  of  nativity. 
And  I  had  a  sense  of  kinship  with  it,  this  small 
estray  of  nature,  blown  whispering  and  seeking  along 
the  street  of  naked  brick  and  stone. 

I  was  home  from  my  vacation,  and  Jim  had  met 
me  with  cheering  news  of  Bushrod,  who  would,  it 
was  hoped,  be  able  to  see  his  friends  within  a  week. 

The  DeWitts  (how  strange  that  sounded!)  had 
now  been  gone  nearly  three  weeks.  I  had  felt  sad- 
dened whenever  I  thought  of  Miss  Salem's  dreary 
little  marriage  ceremony.  She  had  not  asked  me 
to  remain  in  New  York  for  it.  Indeed,  I  realised, 
after  the  hurried  interview  in  which  I  bade  her 
good-bye,  that  she  did  not  wish  me  to  do  so.  It 
was  to  be  entirely  private,  she  told  me.  She  and 

376 


«9»  A  Bridge  of  Days        «f»        377 

Mr.  DeWitt  were  both  without  immediate  family. 
Those  with  whom  their  business  and  social  relations 
were  closest  would,  some  of  them,  necessarily  be 
absent ;  and  so  they  had  thought  best  to  exclude  all. 

Yet  I  noted  gladly  that  the  air  of  uncertainty  and 
disquiet  which  she  had  lately  worn  was  now  replaced 
by  a  look  of  calmness  and  content  that  very  nearly 
approached  happiness.  I  was  thankful,  too,  that  her 
mind  was  so  occupied  with  her  own  concerns  that 
she  had  no  thought  to  spare  to  mine. 

But  when,  after  my  return,  Mrs.  Corcoran  told 
me  of  the  marriage  and  going  away,  she  spoke  so 
brightly  and  shed  such  a  pleasant,  hopeful  light  on 
it  all,  that  I  was  cheered  and  comforted. 

The  wedding,  she  declared,  though  strictly  pri- 
vate, was  very  beautiful.  Miss  Salem's  gown  was  a 
priceless  and  exquisite  thing  of  filmy  lace;  there 
had  been  a  profusion  of  flowers,  and  Bishop  DeWitt, 
a  distant  cousin  of  Justin  DeWitt's,  had  performed 
the  ceremony,  the  only  witnesses  being  Miss  Salem's 
aunt,  who  was  her  housekeeper  in  New  York,  and 
a  very  old  gentleman  I  had  once  or  twice  met  at  her 
house,  who  had  been  her  father's  partner  in  his 
earliest  small  venture  in  the  publishing  business. 

The  Corcoran  household,  with  a  large  contingent 
of  Salem  Publishing  Company  people  and  other 
friends  went  to  the  pier  to  see  the  newly  married 
couple  off  on  their  wedding  journey. 

;*  You  would  not  believe,"  she  told  me,  "  how 
happy  and  suitable  and  well-matched  they  looked  — 
so  settled,  so  wonted,  and  —  well,  in  such  perfect 
sympathy  and  accord.  The  difference  in  age  —  and 
on  the  wrong  side  —  was  noticeable,  of  course ;  but 


378         <&>         The  Last  Word  -$» 

really,  Cara,  outside  of  that,  they  were  as  well-suited, 
well  matched  a  pair  as  I  ever  saw." 

"  Bless  your  sweet  heart !  "  I  answered,  "  you 
ought  to  be  a  newspaper  woman,  and  write  personal 
matter  for  your  livelihood  —  wedding  reports,  and 
obituary  articles,  and  such ;  you  see  so  much  that  is 
good  and  hopeful  in  people  and  their  affairs." 

Now,  the  office  had  had  a  cable  from  the  DeWitts 
in  London. 

Both  were  loaded  with  commissions  for  the  new 
magazine  and  for  the  general  publishing  house. 
They  were  making  quite  a  business  trip  of  it. 

Our  young  lovers  were  married  soon  after  my 
return. 

"  He  "  received  an  offer  of  a  very  advantageous 
position  in  Mexico,  and  to  leave  "  her "  was 
out  of  the  question.  "  He  "  came  up  one  Saturday 
night  with  the  telegram;  they  were  quietly  married 
Sunday,  and  left  us  Monday. 

The  thought  of  our  lovers  doing  anything  sudden 
made  us  all  quite  giddy.  Mrs.  Corcoran  went  be- 
wilderedly  about  with  various  unrelated  articles  in 
her  hand,  crying  out  to  the  casual  passer-by  that  she 
wanted  things  to  be  right,  even  if  we  did  have  but 
fifteen  minutes  in  which  to  do  it  all. 

And  Mr.  Corcoran  had  to  be  forcibly  restrained 
from  giving  them  a  piano  for  a  wedding  present. 
That  was  because  "  she  "  was  musical,  and  "  he  " 
had  always  shown  such  divine  patience  in  listening 
to  "  her  "  playing.  When  argued  out  of  this,  Mr. 
Corcoran  brought  home  the  information  that  good 
bread  was  almost  unknown  in  Mexico  because  the 
flour  was  poor,  and  the  proposition  that  Corydon 


«$»  A  Bridge  of  Days        «9»        379 

and  Phyllis  be  laden  with  something  like  a  half 
car-load  of  Fancy  Triple  X. 

"  As  if  they  cared  anything  about  bread !  "  ejacu- 
lated Mrs.  Corcoran,  with  wifely  scorn  for  his 
lumbering  male  intelligence. 

Mr.  Corcoran  sighed.  "  All  this  marrying  in 
haste  has  turned  my  brain,"  he  admitted.  "  I  can't 
think  connectedly." 

"  Could  you  ever?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Corcoran,  with 
the  suave  frigid  sweetness  of  ice-cream. 

'  The  next,"  pursued  Mr.  Corcoran,  "  the  next  in 
line  for  execution  are,  I  take  it,  this  young  person 
here  and  the  Man  in  Texas." 

The  Man  in  Texas  was  an  old  character  in  Mr. 
Corcoran's  domestic  fiction,  and  he  walked  whenever 
other  resources  failed;  so,  "  There  are,"  I  responded, 
tranquilly,  "  five  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  men 
(more  or  less)  in  Texas.  To  which  particular 
gentleman  do  you  refer?  " 

"  To  that  brave  but  devoted  individual,"  re- 
sponded Mr.  Corcoran,  pensively,  almost  plaintively, 
"  who  is  waiting  his  doom  (and  you)  somewhere 
out  in  that  exceedingly  flat  country  you  have  quite 
frequently  mentioned  and  described.  The  man  who 
has  just  now  an  excellent  opportunity  to  flee,  and  no 
knowledge  of  why  he  should  do  so." 

"  See  here,"  I  said,  "  you  think  that  is  funny,  of 
course;  but  I  do  not  mind  telling  you  that  your 
stupidity  is  so  far  right  that  I  might,  when  I  came 
here,  have  been  labouring  under  the  hallucination 
that  there  was  —  to  adopt  your  phrase  —  a  '  Man  in 
Texas.'  I  have  settled  it  now,  however,  and  settled 
it  negatively.  There  is  no  '  Man  in  Texas  '  —  there 
is  no  man  for  me  anywhere  but  here,"  and  I  thumped 


380         «f»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

my  chest.  "  I  have  found  him  to  be  a  reliable,  stout- 
hearted person;  ready  to  go  with  me.  At  present 
(much  as  I'd  like  to  oblige  you  with  another  '  wed- 
ding while  you  wait ' ) ,  we  are  not  asking  for  other 
companionship  —  it  is  companionship  I  mention, 
you  notice,  not  captaincy." 

Mr.  Corcoran,  bless  him,  warmed  to  my  discourse. 
He  looked  at  me  with  quick  understanding.  "  Yes !  " 
he  cried.  "Why  not?  Why  shouldn't  a  girl  feel 
so?  I've  often  wondered  at  them.  Why  should  a 
woman  of  brains  and  ability,  one  that  has  force  and 
courage  to  follow  her  own  course,  be  so  anxious  to 
meet  some  man  and  hand  over  the  ship  to  him  —  to 
virtually  say,  '  Here,  take  it ;  sail  it  where  you 
please ! '  Gad !  I  couldn't  do  it ;  and  I'm  hanged 
if  I  see  why  any  woman  of  character  seeks  it.  I'd 
rather  go  lonesome. 

"  Look  at  the  Madame.  Tis  little  she  knew  the 
treasure  she  was  getting,  of  course,  and  yet  she 
would  have  me ;  she  would  not  take  a  courteous  no 
—  nor  several  of  them." 

And  Mrs.  Corcoran  contemptuously  refusing  to 
rise  to  this  bait,  he  walked  away,  singing  "  Haste 
to  the  wedding,"  out  of  tune. 

I  had  lived  a  strange  dual  existence  in  those  days 
before  I  left  for  my  vacation.  The  poor  drudge  my 
mind,  which  of  its  own  motion  went  following 
Frank's  footsteps  through  all  imagined  ways,  must 
make  some  effort  toward  its  daily,  weekly  stunt. 

I  would  begin  a  piece  of  work,  only  to  fall  sud- 
denly blank  and  helpless  in  the  midst  of  it,  my 
truant  mind  creeping  away  to  hang  after  the  one 
object  to  which  it  was  ever  voluntarily  devoted. 
Dragged  back  by  the  shoulder  and  thrust  upon  the 


«$»  A  Bridge  of  Days        -^        381 

unloved  task,  it  slaved  sullenly,  and  only  so  long  as 
it  was  held  there  by  the  grasp  of  unceasing  vigilance. 

I  sat  at  table  and  the  food  was  placed  before  me, 
the  talk  went  on  about  me.  My  vacant  eyes  were  on 
the  plate,  my  poor  heart  was  away,  setting  up  a 
thousand  inquiries,  questing,  questing,  crying,  plead- 
ing in  the  darkness  after  Frank. 

Where  was  he?  Whither  bent  his  steps?  Upon 
what  were  those  compelling  eyes  looking?  What 
employment  occupied  the  hands  I  loved?  And  oh 
—  what  did  he  think?  This,  with  a  thousand  varia- 
tions, was  always  the  piteous  repetend.  This  one 
unsleeping  ache  found  never  any  assuagement. 

Did  he  look  up  now  from  the  book  he  read  or 
the  work  he  bent  above,  and  sigh  with  that  catching 
breath  I  knew  so  well?  And  at  the  stab  of  the 
thought,  I  would  start  to  consciousness  of  my  real 
surroundings,  and  look  about  upon  the  others  with 
eyes  of  sheer  anguish. 

I  usually  found  at  such  times  that  some  one  had 
addressed  a  question  to  me,  or  there  was  a  half- 
completed  sentence,  the  first  portion  of  which  I  was 
supposed  to  know,  and  to  which  I  was  expected  to 
respond. 

I  remember  going  one  day  into  the  speckless  little 
kitchen  to  get  some  hot  water  for  my  paste-pot. 
Lottie,  our  waitress,  of  whose  absurd  prettiness  I 
had  made  complaint  when  the  sending  of  young 
lovers  came  upon  me,  stood  at  a  table  rubbing  some 
glasses. 

The  heat  was  not  yet  on  in  the  house,  and  I  sat 
down  for  a  moment  by  the  cosy  range.  I  heard  a 
faint  sniffing  behind  me,  and  looked  around  to  find 


382          <&         The  Last  Word  «e» 

that  Lottie  was  patiently  wiping  away  tears  as  she 
polished  tumblers. 

Then  I  recalled,  what  my  selfish  pain  had  made  me 
forget,  that  there  was  no  longer  any  young  man  en 
evidence,  no  Sabbath-day  loiterings  to  taunt  my  lone- 
liness, and  that  Mrs.  Corcoran  had  said  Lottie  was 
moping. 

"  Oh,  ja,"  that  damsel  interrupted  her  suppressed 
grief  to  say,  "  '  Tiss  true,  Miss  Carry.  Wimmenss 
iss  poor  weak  creaturess — and  menss — they  knowss 
it." 

She  spoke  as  though  resuming  an  intermitted  con- 
versation, and  I  replied  to  her  with  such  comforting 
assurances  as  I  could  find. 

Everybody  was  very  good  to  me.  Nobody  seemed 
to  notice.  I  went  about  more  than  usual.  I  went 
to  church,  to  the  office,  to  the  theatre ;  I  went  wher- 
ever anybody  asked  me  to  go.  And  everywhere  - 
visiting,  receiving  visits,  sitting  at  table,  working  at 
my  desk,  moving  in  the  crowded  street,  —  so  much 
more  vital  was  the  thought  of  Frank  than  anything 
about  me,  that  if  death  had  struck  me  down,  with 
but  one  moment  for  a  cry  between  the  stroke  and 
extinction,  I  should  have  cried  his  name. 

I  had  planned  a  dreary  little  outing  at  a  place  I 
was  sure  I  should  not  like,  when  I  received  a  tele- 
gram asking  me  to  meet  Baxter  Lord  and  his  wife 
at  the  dock  and  go  with  them  to  Old  Point  for  a 
two  weeks'  stay.  The  Lords  were  cousins  of  Jim's, 
and  old  friends  of  mine.  Mr.  Lord  was  a  cattle 
baron  in  the  Texas  Panhandle ;  they  were  very  rich, 
very  generous,  lovable,  childless  people,  between 
whom  and  myself  there  was  an  affection  of  long 
standing. 


«$»  A  Bridge  of  Days        ^        383 

It  was  years  afterward  that  I  knew  this  summons, 
which  was  so  like  the  Lords'  usual  method  as  to 
have  excited  no  surprise  in  me,  had  been  arranged 
by  cable.  Jim  caught  them  in  London,  on  the  point 
of  sailing  for  New  York,  and  dictated  the  message 
which  I  received,  explaining  in  more  detail  that 
I  was  run  down  and  homesick  and  needing  my 
friends,  when  he  met  them  on  the  deck  of  the  home- 
ward bound  steamer. 

My  two  weeks  did  me  a  wonderful  amount  of 
good.  Jim  was  with  us  a  part  of  the  time,  so  that 
what  with  the  out-door  life,  the  society  of  Jim 
and  his  cousins  —  always  both  tonic  and  restful  to 
me  —  and  the  entire  change,  the  breaking  off  of  all 
unhealthy  trains  of  thought,  I  returned  to  New  York 
almost  myself  once  more. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

The   Phantom    Caravan 

"  Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  heart  ? 

Thy  hopes  have  gone  before  :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart !  " 

WITH  sight  of  the  familiar  squares  and  streets, 
with  breath  of  the  atmosphere  Frank  breathed, 
though  he  was  not  then  there,  came  a  pitiful  revul- 
sion, and  the  loss,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  of  all  I  had 
gained. 

"  It  is  the  place,"  I  said.  "  Here  is  where  we 
loved  each  other,  and  where  I  can  no  longer  live 
when  this  is  not  so.  I  will  not  go  near  the  office 
again.  I  will  send  my  copy  in  by  mail.  I  will 
once  more  try  new  scenes  and  new  people.  I  will 
go-" 

"  But  not  too  far !  "  clamoured  my  cowardly  heart, 
"  not  too  far !  There  is  surely  room  in  this  great 
city  for  a  new  life,  and  new  associates.  There's 
Podunk,  and  Harlem,  there's  Probability  Avenue, 
Promising  Square,  and  Try-it-a-whack  Street.  And 
there  are  the  Pretty-Good  Smiths,  the  Unknown 
Browns,  the  Great-Potential  Butlers,  and  the  Un- 
developed-Resources McWhirters  —  all  God's  chil- 
dren, too;  and  none  of  them  will  look  at  me  with 
eyes  that  have  seen  Frank. 

384 


«$»         The  Phantom  Caravan      «$»      385 

"  I  believe,"  I  assured  myself,  "  that  among 
people  who  did  not  know  Frank,  from  whose  lips 
I  need  not  dread  to  hear  his  name,  I  could  be  well." 

Ah,  to  make  a  long,  long  story  very  short,  when 
no  letter  came,  when  I  got  home  and  found  no  in- 
direct message  from  Frank,  when  I  went  to  the 
office  and  had  no  word  from  him,  except  that  when 
I  asked  I  was  told  he  remained  in  Virginia,  and  that 
his  mother  was  believed  to  be  better,  —  then  I  broke 
down. 

It  was  three  months  since  I  had  heard  from  him 
directly.  Now  I  knew  that  he  was  alive  —  that  he 
was  well.  And  a  feeling  of  exasperation  and  weari- 
ness came  over  me.  How  long  ?  —  how  much  ?  — 
what  more  ?  I  wondered.  When  would  I  be  quit  of 
this  madness,  and  at  peace? 

I  would  not  protest.  He  did  not.  He  seemed  to 
be  able  to  endure  without  a  groan  the  thing  which 
had  come  upon  us.  There  was  no  use  crying  out 
for  the  mountains  to  fall  upon  me,  nor  for  the  seas 
to  rise  and  swallow  me.  I  did  not  desire  to  be  out 
of  a  world  where  Frank  was ;  I  only  longed  to  mad- 
ness for  some  word  from  him. 

Three-fourths  of  the  time  when  I  was  awake  I 
was  mentally  writing  letters  to  him,  all  of  which 
began,  "  Oh,  Frank,  how  can  you  ?  How  can  you 
have  the  heart  to  do  it?"  I  was  spiritually  upon 
my  knees,  begging  him  to  at  least  send  me  some 
word,  to  tell  me  that  he  suffered,  too,  and  that  he 
knew  now  that  what  I  did  was  not  wanton,  cruel, 
unnecessary,  but  was  dictated  by  my  love  for  him, 
as  well  as  my  caring  for  my  own  soul. 

Sometimes  I  thought  of  the  dumb  wall  which  was 
now  between  us  as  a  contemptuous  silence,  a  cruel 


386         «9»         The  Last  Word  <*• 

thing ;  more  often  I  gave  him  the  grace  of  believing 
that  he  thought  what  he  did  was  well  done,  and  best 
for  both  of  us. 

I  decided  finally  that  I  would  write  to  him  — 
a  simple,  friendly  letter,  such  as  I  might  write  to 
any  one  whom  I  had  loved.  I  would  entreat  him  to 
be  friends,  not  to  let  this  hideous  blackness  shut 
down  over  what  had  been  the  fair  country  of  our 
love. 

When  my  heart  ached  hardest,  I  told  myself 
that  I  had  said  to  Frank  —  in  action  at  least  —  that 
I  must  give  him  up  because  he  interfered  with  my 
work  —  my  individual  career.  And  I  went  on,  in 
bitter  irony  and  self -scourging,  to  say  that  the  work 
was  here  now,  the  career  waiting,  and  certainly 
no  interference  from  Frank  to  prevent  my  being  per- 
fectly happy. 

Mr.  DeWitt  had  left  me  a  carefully  planned  com- 
mission for  a  delightful  Southwestern  trip.  To  the 
man  who  sat  now  at  his  desk  (and  did  his  work  very 
ill)  I  made  excuses  —  I  should  have  found  my 
statements  promptly  sifted  had  my  editor  been  there 
to  receive  them. 

And  so  I  lingered,  ashamed  to  do  so,  dreading 
to  meet  Genevieve,  who  was  expected  back  soon 
from  a  small  vacation,  hoping  that  there  might 
come  a  letter,  a  message,  Frank's  return  —  anything 
but  to  go  away  from  this  blank  emptiness. 

In  the  midst  of  my  hesitations,  I  received  a  mes- 
sage from  Genevieve;  she  had  come  back  with  the 
Canadian  friends  whom  she  had  been  visiting,  and 
was  now  at  the  hotel  with  them,  and  she  asked  me 
to  call,  setting  an  hour  at  which  I  might  do  so. 

I  was  late  for  my  engagement,  and  when  the  bell- 


"'I    DECIDED    FINALLY    THAT    I    WOULD    WRITE   TO    HIM'" 


<&         The  Phantom  Caravan      *£»      387 

boy  showed  me  up  I  found  Genevieve  dressing  to 
go  out  to  the  opera.  She  was  not  due  at  the  office 
for  a  week,  and  had  decided  to  take  that  portion 
of  her  vacation  in  New  York. 

After  she  had  greeted  me,  she  begged  my  indul- 
gence and  seated  herself  once  more  that  the  hair- 
dresser might  complete  her  coiffure. 

I  fairly  gasped  as  I  looked  at  her.  The  arms  and 
shoulders  which  her  low  dress  displayed  were  Juno- 
like,  and  of  the  whiteness  of  marble ;  her  brownish 
eyes  were  alight  and  glowing,  the  rose  pink  which 
I  had  thought  only  exercise  could  bring,  bloomed  on 
her  cheek ;  and  the  little  dark  Frenchwoman  behind 
her  chair  was  piling  up  the  masses  of  shining  hair 
with  skilled  fingers  and  many  exclamations  of 
delight. 

There  was  no  manner  of  doubt  about  it,  Gene- 
vieve not  only  was  a  transformed  being  in  evening 
dress,  but  she  knew  it,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed  it. 

I  said  something  of  this  sort,  when  the  hair- 
dresser finished,  and  Genevieve  came  trailing  her 
shimmering  gown  across  the  room  to  the  table 
where  her  gloves,  fan,  and  flowers  lay.  "  I  do  love 
a  frock  with  a  tail,"  she  admitted,  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction,  looking  back  at  her  train.  "  I  have 
not  had  this  one  on  since  the  reception  the  Women's 
Economic  Club  gave  me  when  I  first  came  over." 

She  turned  upon  me  a  queer  glance  which  re- 
minded me  of  the  old  Genevieve.  "  I  was  wearing 
this  frock  when  I  first  met  our  mutual  friend,  Mr. 
DeWitt.  I  indulged  in  sentiment  regarding  it,  for 
some  time.  I  needed  an  evening  gown,  however,  so 
I  got  it  out  a  week  ago  and  let  Madame  Ribot 
freshen  it  up  a  bit." 


388         <&        The  Last  Word  •& 

'l  You've  been  freshening  up  more  things  than 
frocks,  it  appears  to  me,"  I  said,  enviously. 

Genevieve  laughed.  "  I  have  indeed,"  she  agreed, 
promptly.  "  Violets  were  the  only  flowers  he  ever 
gave  me;  and  here,  when  cousin  Rupert  sends  up  a 
nosegay  of  them,  I  do  not  bedew  them  with  tears 
as  I  might  once  have  done;  I  pin  them  on  and  wear 
them.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  get  rid  of  foolish,  false 
sentiment;  "  and  she  threw  me  a  shrewd  glance,  and 
a  smile. 

"  Jim  is  going  back  to  Texas,"  I  hastened  to 
inform  her.  "  He  will  be  up  to  say  good-bye,  and 
then  go  on  home  with  me  to  bid  farewell  to  the 
folks  there." 

"  When  are  you  going  West  ?  "  asked  Genevieve, 
abruptly. 

Genevieve  had  not  outgrown  her  fondness  for 
bombarding  her  friends  with  those  great  swabby 
lumps  of  truth,  or  cuffing  them  with  unwelcome 
inquiries. 

I  muttered  something  about  having  some  work 
to  do;  but  she  interrupted  me,  "  I  should  not  think 
you  would  hang  about  New  York  when  you  have  a 
commission  to  Texas.  I  am  sure  you  would  be  much 
better  off  riding  one  of  those  ponies  about,  and  see- 
ing your  old  friends,  than  you  are  here." 

I  resented  the  imputation,  but  it  haunted  me,  and 
it  must  have  lain  in  my  subjective  mind,  for  it  bore 
fruit  later. 

As  Jim  and  I  were  walking  up  to  Seventy-Fourth 
Street  he  told  me  of  his  plans  for  Bushrod. 

"  He's  coming  out  to  my  Devil's  River  sheep 
ranch,  as  soon  as  he  is  well  enough  to  travel  com- 
fortably. He  ought  to  be  now  —  a  great  fine  fellow 


«$»         The  Phantom  Caravan      «$»      389 

like  that;  what  he  is  fooling  along  so  slowly  for  I 
can't  see." 

"  Oh,  that  is  just  the  thing  for  him !  "  I  cried.  "  It 
will  be  delightful  for  you  both." 

"  You're  mighty  right,  it  will,"  agreed  Jim. 
"  And  when  I  get  Bush  out  there,  I'll  take  him  in 
for  a  partner  and  keep  him." 

Then  he  added,  "  What  about  yourself,  Miss 
Carry?"  and  looked  very  carefully  straight  ahead 
of  him.  "  Suppose  you  let  go  of  New  York,  too, 
and  come  back  and  write  us  some  more  fine  Texas 
stuff  ?  Give  us  some  more  poetry  like  those  '  Lyrics 
of  the  Trail,'  or  the  '  Cowboy's  Hymn  to  the  Night ; ' 
or  another  rattling  story  like  '  Raynor's  Ranch  '  and 
'  Shorty  and  the  Seven  Bars.'  You  really  belong 
to  us,  you  know." 

When  Jim  was  gone  back  to  Texas,  Genevieve 
not  yet  returned  to  her  desk,  and  no  message  had 
come  from  Bushrod,  the  office  and  my  life  were 
indeed  dreary  things. 

Finally,  driven  by  despair,  my  heart  turned  to 
the  one  thing  which  I  had  of  Frank  —  the  big  book. 
First,  my  mind  hovered  about  the  subject,  once  so 
distasteful  to  me.  I  got  out  the  note-book  which 
I  had  devoted  to  it.  The  suggestions  therein  were, 
I  decided  languidly,  very  good  indeed. 

One  afternoon  when  it  was  storming  so  that  I 
did  not  care  to  go  out,  and  Teddy,  after  keeping  me 
company  for  an  hour  or  so,  had  fallen  asleep,  I 
suddenly  began  and  wrote  a  fine  chapter  —  then  put 
my  head  down  on  the  table  and  wept  because  there 
was  no  one  to  share  the  triumph  with  —  no  one  to 
praise  and  approve  me. 

Teddy  wakened,  and,  locking  his  little  arms  tightly 


39°         «$»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

around  my  neck,  cried,  "Oh,  Tarry!  Oh,  Tarry! 
Don't  w'ite  it  if  it  hurts  'oo  so!  "  and  we  wept  to- 
gether upon  my  excellent  chapter,  then  dried  each 
other's  tears. 

Then,  Mr.  Corcoran  came  home  and  told  me  Miss 
Bucks  was  writing  in  the  little  Tenth  Street  studio, 
on  her  beloved,  long  anticipated  Chemical  Encyclo- 
pedia. I  went  the  very  next  day  and  began  regular 
work  on  the  big  book. 

My  emotions  were  strange  and  mingled.  I  asked 
myself  what  Frank  would  think,  and  where  was  my 
womanly  pride?  Then,  with  a  wave  of  deeper 
feeling,  I  said,  "  Why  should  such  a  consideration 
weigh  with  me?  Why  do  I  inquire  whether  he 
would  —  in  my  place  —  do  as  I  am  doing,  or  be 
bitter  over  the  conclusion  that  he  would  never  make 
any  concession.  He  is  himself,  and  I  am  I.  And 
it  is  Frank  I  love  —  not  I." 

With  such  subterfuges  I  quieted  my  heart,  and 
the  big  book  throve  apace.  I  perceived,  now  com- 
pulsion was  removed,  that  I  really  could  do  this 
sort  of  thing  very  well  indeed. 

This  kept  the  days  moving,  but  the  nights  were 
beginning  to  be  once  more  a  horror  to  me. 

At  last  Mr.  Corcoran  handed  me,  one  evening, 
a  letter  from  the  office,  addressed  in  a  familiar  hand, 
and  bearing  the  Richmond  postmark. 

It  was  at  the  dinner-table,  and  my  soup  choked 
me,  my  fish  was  as  the  meat  of  serpents,  and  my 
chair  a  rack,  till  I  could  crawl  away  to  my  own 
little  cubiculum,  shut  the  door  and  be  alone  with 
that  letter. 

The  world  sung  and  spun  about  me.  Would 
it  be  kind  ?  What  would  he  say  ?  It  was  very  thin 


«$»         The  Phantom  Caravan      «f»      391 

and  light  —  a  mere  note.  I  collected  such  outstand- 
ing breath  as  I  could,  and  tore  open  the  envelope 
with  cold,  shaking  fingers. 

Why  —  oh,  why  —  oh,  why !  Why  are  we  made 
so  piteously  apt  and  capable,  so  ordered  and  strung 
and  adjusted  for  this  exquisite  suffering? 

Absolutely  terror-smitten  to  look  at  it,  I  held  it  in 
my  hand  long  after  it  was  open,  covering  the  words 
it  might  choose  to  say  to  me.  It  was  fearful  to 
me  to  feel  the  fresh- roused  agony  with  which  I 
looked  down  at  those  shielding  fingers,  saying,  "  Oh, 
if  he  would  but  have  one  moment  of  loving  weak- 
ness !  Oh,  if  this  might  be,  that  he  would  make  me 
cling  to  him  despite  myself,  and  worship  him  for 
ever,  by  showing  me  a  love  and  a  weakness  like  my 
own! 

"  But  he  will  not.  No,  no,  not  he!  I  may  be 
weak  and  loving  for  both.  He  will  never  so  far 
forget  his  pride;  he —  And  yet,  he  has  written." 

Then  I  turned  the  note  out  upon  the  table,  and 
found  in  it  a  cheque.  It  was  from  a  Richmond 
paper  which  had,  months  ago,  bought  a  bit  of  my 
stuff,  and  only  now  printed  and  paid  for  it.  And  the 
clerk  who  mailed  the  cheque  had  a  handwriting 
something  like  Frank's ! 

Once,  for  a  whole  long  day  I  kept  an  appreciable 
distance  ahead  of  my  pursuing  disquiet  —  for  a 
long,  busy,  wholesome  day.  And,  encouraged,  I 
again  made  friends  with  my  little  bed.  Then  sud- 
denly, in  the  trustfulness  of  rest  and  approaching 
sleep,  it  took  me  by  the  throat,  the  passion  of  love 
and  longing.  It  rolled  back  upon  me  like  a  blinding, 
strangling  sea.  I  sprang  up  and,  with  a  dressing- 
gown  thrown  about  me,  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 


392         «9»        The  Last  Word  «^ 

Out  of  the  blackness  of  darkness  which  covered 
me  leaped,  flash-like,  the  picture  of  his  face,  the 
compelling  eyes  softened  and  lightening  upon  me 
in  tenderness ;  the  chin  —  that  chin  which  always 
made  my  heart  afraid  —  not  pushed  forward,  the 
grim  mouth  smiling,  the  haughty  spirit  melted,  the 
whole  man  bending  toward,  seeking,  inviting  me. 

It  grasped  my  heart  like  a  strong  hand ;  it  swept 
the  breath  from  my  lips.  I  could  almost  never 
weep,  when  I  was  deeply  hurt  or  moved.  It  was  a 
thing  commonly  denied  me.  As  I  struggled  in  this 
big  black  tidal  wave  of  choking  emotion,  I  heard 
some  one  groan,  and  then  realised  with  a  dull 
astonishment,  that  it  must  have  been  I. 

Next  moment,  a  blast  of  recollection  and  impa- 
tience blew  across  the  suffering,  fever-distraught 
country  of  my  mind.  I  leaped  up  from  the  bedside, 
and  stood  tense  and  rigid  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
I  flung  my  arms  abroad,  and  looked  angrily  about 
me,  crying: 

"  Why  do  I  suffer  this  a  day  —  an  hour  ?  Why 
stay  here  and  endure  these  corroding  agonies  —  so 
groundless,  so  unreal  ?  Think  of  the  plains !  Think 
of  the  great  green-brown  stretches,  free,  limitless, 

—  a  good  horse  under  one,  the  open  plain  beneath 
the  open  sky  above,  the  eye  unchecked,  from  rim 
to  rim  —  the  whole  world  yours  —  the  world  where 
only  God  lives ;  the  Gulf-breeze  —  God's  very  breath 

—  blowing  keen  and  strong  in  your  face  as  you 
gallop,   cleansing  all  that  world  —  and  your  own 
sick  mind  —  of  stain  and  soil  and  pain ! 

"  Shall  I  stay  here  struggling  vainly  in  this  net 
of  pain  and  error,  running  this  Indian  gauntlet 
where  every  hope  and  sentiment  and  wish  of  my 


«£»         The  Phantom  Caravan      «$»      393 

heart,  all  my  purposes  and  beliefs  and  ideals,  and 
the  fixed  principles,  stand  in  a  night-long  row  on 
either  side,  with  scourges  in  their  hands,  while  I  flee 
between  them? 

"  Should  I  stupidly  endure  this,  while  the  plains 
are  there,  with  their  breath  of  balm,  their  air  of 
healing  and  renewing?  When  Nipper  and  Little- 
Bronc  and  Glass-Eye  are  running  free  over  the 
Ojo  Bravo  pastures,  and  my  great,  deep,  double- 
cinched  '  cow  girl '  hangs  in  the  storeroom  at  the 
Ojo  Bravo  ranch-house? 

"  I  will  not  —  I  will  no  longer.  I  see  it  now. 
It  is  with  me,  here,  as  with  that  man  who  prayed 
to  Jove  from  the  low  lands  for  health,  and  to  whom 
the  god  promised  the  boon  if  it  were  prayed  for  from 
the  mountain  top. 

"These  bonds,"  I  said,  "cut  my  flesh  till  the 
blood  runs  down;  these  clouds  of  pain  and  doubt 
blind  my  eyes  so  that  I  cannot  see  God's  face;  this 
ceaseless  hammering  of  never-answered  questions 
deafens  my  ears  to  the  voice  of  peace  and  truth.  It 
is  out  there  that  I  am  to  go  —  there  where  health 
and  God  are,  and  the  soul  may  find  itself  and  him  — 
and  peace." 

When  Mr.  Corcoran  came  home  and  found  the 
big  trunk  in  the  small  entry,  in  process  of  being 
packed,  he  regarded  the  proceedings  for  some  time 
with  a  mildly  pensive  eye.  Finally  he  glanced  up 
at  me  where  I  stood,  wadding  millions  of  square 
miles  of  tissue-paper  about  the  Japanese  dragon  and 
other  small  and  precious  possessions.  He  sighed, 
smiled  quizzically,  and  shook  his  head,  all  at  once. 
"  I  rather  misdoubt  this  business,  Texas,"  said  he. 
"  You've  been  much  to  us,  Texas,  very  much ;  and 


394         •&         The  Last  Word  «£» 

my  heart  misgives  me  that  we  could  have  better 
spared  a  better  man." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  remarked  Mrs.  Corcoran, 
wearily  (she  was  feeling  rather  severely  the  reaction 
from  the  wild  clash  and  shock  of  the  sudden 
wedding). 

To  me,  she  said,  "  You're  hardly  a  bit  like  a 
person  from  Texas,  any  more.  I  don't  see  but  you 
behave  very  much  like  other  people." 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  submissively,  "  you  took  me 
in  hand  with  considerable  vigour,  and  set  to  work 
to  educate  me  up  —  or  down  —  to  a  metropolitan 
standard.  I  have  changed  a  goodish  bit.  Aren't 
you  pleased?  Have  you  educated  me  clear  out  of 
your  liking?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  returned  Mrs.  Corcoran,  a  little 
pettishly  for  her,  "  but,  oh,  how  we  do  miss  Mr. 
Baxter!" 

And  they  would  miss  me,  too,  for  my  papers  were 
all  made  out ;  yes,  I  had  earned  my  honourable  dis- 
charge. I  was  going  to  the  Southwest,  with  that 
roving  commission  which  Mr.  DeWitt  had  adapted 
to  my  abilities,  as  a  French  costume  is  fitted  to  one's 
form,  so  that  it  should  bind  me  nowhere  and  fit  me 
everywhere,  and  always  make  the  best  of  me  and  the 
most  of  my  natural  advantages. 

And  it  was  ho  for  Texas!  For  the  whole  thing 
—  Panhandle,  Staked  Plains,  and  all  of  Mexico 
this  time!  for  Pullman  cars,  stages,  buckboards, 
lumber  wagons,  ewe-necked,  gable-roofed,  sharp- 
spined,  frazzle-tempered,  dish-faced,  wild-eyed  mus- 
tangs !  For  strange  shifts  and  queer  goes  —  for 
bear  hunts  with  no  bears,  cat  hunts  with  no  cats, 
sweeping  winds,  blazing  suns,  all-out-doors,  and 


*Q>         The  Phantom  Caravan      «$»      395 

general  turned-looseness.  Camping  expeditions  — 
nights  on  the  bald  prairie,  with  a  row  of  toes  round 
the  fire,  my  head  off  somewhere  in  the  coolness,  my 
eyes  looking  up  again  —  as  they  used  —  into  the 
same  far,  unresponding  Texas  sky,  wondering,  with 
a  sudden  pain  of  loneliness  in  my  heart,  what  it  all 
might  be  for  —  what  the  good  of  it  all. 

But  after  night,  day  comes  again!  And  ho  for 
round-ups  and  races  and  all  sorts  of  excursions  —  for 
life,  movement,  change  —  and,  above  all,  work  — 
work  —  work !  Good  work,  to  an  end  and  with  a 
purpose. 

In  this  ho-for-the-tented-field,  take-love's-cruel- 
ties-out-of-the-armed-foe  spirit,  brave  and  useful 
things  have  been  done  by  men;  why,  I  inquired, 
might  not  there  be  something  in  it  for  a  woman? 

I  would  go  back  —  and  yet  not  I.  The  same  brash 
young  person  who  came  out  of  Texas  could  never 
go  back  there,  for  she  was  now  no  more.  I  might 
not  know  all  I  thought  I  did  now,  but  I  certainly 
came  a  deal  nearer  it  than  I  did  a  year  before. 

And  these  streets  and  squares  and  byways  filled 
with  thronging  life,  which  had  witnessed  my  happi- 
ness and  my  despair,  at  which  I  had  sometimes 
laughed  and  sometimes  wept ;  this  place  which  had 
sometimes  figured  itself  to  me  as  a  prison,  and 
sometimes  as  a  playground,  and  which  had  in  both 
aspects  grown  dear  to  me,  these  would,  I  knew, 
grow  dearer  with  the  miles  that  should  separate  us. 

I  used  to  think  —  as  most  provincials  do  —  that 
only  one  spot,  and  that  a  very  small  one,  could  ever 
be  home  to  me.  But  I  had  come  to  know  that,  to 
the  thinking  being,  all  the  world  is  home. 

Wherever  the  heart  has  felt,  the  mind  learned, 


396         «f»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

wherever  they  have  awakened  to  more  knowledge  of 
themselves  and  their  capacities,  there  they  find  that 
which  makes  home  to  them,  there  they  must  leave 
somewhat  of  themselves,  and  thence  must  carry 
backward-glancing  remembrance. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

"In   the   House   of  A   Stranger" 

"  O  that  'twere  possible 

After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  I  " 

MY  possessions  were  packed,  my  farewells  made; 
I  was  to  leave  for  Texas  the  day  after  Christmas. 

Mrs.  Corcoran  and  I  had  purchased  a  Christmas 
tree,  for  which  she  much  lamented  that  we  had  not 
first  measured  the  flat. 

Teddy  had  been  put  out  of  the  room  so  many 
times,  and  shrieked  at  so  frequently  when  about  to 
discover  some  holiday  secret,  that  he  stole  about 
with  the  big  tears  ready  to  brim  his  eyes  at  the 
first  breath  of  reproof. 

Having  purchased  the  tree,  Mrs.  Corcoran  and  I 
sat  up  most  of  the  night  before  Christmas  trimming 
it.  We  drew  the  portieres  between  the  dining-room 
and  the  room  where  Teddy  lay,  spiking  them  to- 
gether with  a  hat-pin,  and  whispered  our  comments. 
But  that  hardy  buccaneer  (wooing  calls  and  entrea- 
ties having  failed)  twice  scrambled  from  his  couch, 
and,  voyaging  as  far  as  the  curtains,  put  a  small 
inquisitive  nose  through,  and  remarked,  "  Peep- 
boo!" 

397 


398         -^         The  Last  Word  <$> 

Bundled  sharply  back  to  bed,  he  continued  to  call 
forgivingly,  "  Peep-boo !  I  love  oo,  muvver.  I 
love  oo,  Tarry.  I  love  oo,  bofes  of  oo,"  till  he  fell, 
finally,  asleep. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  myself  had  slept  but  a 
moment  when  the  wise  virgin  Lottie,  who  had  read 
for  me  the  hearts  of  men,  brought  in  a  card  and 
waked  me.  Nobody  else  was  up.  The  gentleman 
had  asked  for  just  me,  and  told  her  to  disturb  no  one 
else. 

I  sat  up,  drew  my  dressing-gown  about  me  and 
read  upon  the  bit  of  pasteboard  the  name  of  Francis 
Randolph's  secretary. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Brant  that  I  will  be  there  immediately," 
I  said,  fumbling  with  shaking  fingers  for  my  slippers. 

A  few  moments  later  I  was  crying  softly  —  for 
even  terror  and  grief  must  be  restrained  vocally  in 
a  flat  —  "  What  is  it  ?  Tell  me  now  —  oh,  tell  me 
at  once!  I  can  bear  anything  but  waiting." 

The  tall  boy  whom  I  had  learned  to  know  well  in 
the  happiest  times  of  my  love  for  Frank,  who  had 
often  worked  with  us  in  the  little  studio,  rose  and 
came  to  me  with  both  hands  outstretched. 

"  Don't  be  so  frightened,  Miss  West,"  he  said 
gently,  as  he  took  my  cold  fingers  and  put  me  into 
a  chair.  "  I  was  awfully  thoughtless  to  come  here 
at  this  hour.  I  have  been  up  all  night,  and  I  did 
not  realise  that  it  was  so  early." 

I  sat,  dumb  with  sheer  terror,  dreading  to  ask 
his  errand,  wishing  I  were  deaf,  that  I  need  never 
hear  it.  "  It  is  only  because  it  is  Christmas,"  I 
faltered  finally,  scanning  his  face  with  apprehensive 
eyes.  "  We  are  usually  breakfasting  at  this  hour. 
What  is  it?" 


«$»     "In  the  House  of  A  Stranger"  «9»  399 

"  Mr.  Randolph  sent  me,"  he  began  —  I  drew  a 
great  sigh  of  relief. 

"  He  wanted  me  to  ask  you  to  come  to  him,  some 
time  to-day." 

"  Where  is  he?  "  my  lips  shaped  almost  automat- 
ically. 

"  He  is  in  —  that  is,  he  is  not  at  his  rooms." 

"Where  is  he?"  I  breathed  again,  rising.  "I 
will  go  to  him  at  once.  Will  you  wait  and  take  me 
to  him  now?  I  will  not  keep  you  long." 

I  have  some  vague  remembrance  of  Lottie,  with 
the  tears  running  down  her  patient  little  freckled 
nose,  bringing  me  one  tan  shoe  and  one  black  one; 
of  my  trying,  in  a  hurried,  preoccupied  fashion,  to 
put  my  street  garb  on  over  my  dressing-gown;  and 
finally  of  dear  little  Mrs.  Corcoran  coming  in  and 
taking  me  in  her  arms,  saying  over  and  over :  "  You 
poor  girl!  You  are  not  to  blame.  Nobody  could 
have  a  kinder  heart  than  you  have,  Cara." 

I  wondered  dully  what  my  kind  heart  had  to  do 
with  anything;  and  once  out  in  the  snowy  street  with 
Harry  Brant,  I  asked  him  again  where  he  was  taking 
me  —  where  Frank  was. 

The  streets  were  gay  with  new-fallen  snow,  and 
almost  empty,  save  for  the  cheerful  cleaning  brigade 
and  a  lively  chattering  of  sparrows. 

Harry  put  me  in  the  carriage,  just  nodded  with 
a  single  low-spoken  word  to  the  driver,  and  we 
turned  and  drove  out  Seventy-fourth  Street  to  Ninth 
Avenue  and  then  down  it. 

On  the  way  Harry  began  with  the  hesitating 
query,  "  You  knew  that  Mrs.  Randolph  was  dead, 
did  you,  Miss  Cara  ?  " 

I  answered  that  I  did  not.     Mr.  Corcoran  was 


400        «f»         The  Last  Word  <Q> 

suffering  from  a  feverish  cold,  and  had  not  been 
down  to  the  office  for  several  days. 

"  The  funeral  was  last  Wednesday,"  the  boy  went 
on.  "  Mr.  Randolph  got  to  New  York  on  Thursday 
night,  and  went  directly  to  Doctor  Jay  Conway  Lan- 
sing's to  see  a  friend.  I  was  with  him.  He  was 
not  at  all  well,  and  he  had  a  shock  —  a  —  well,  a 
shock.  That  is  two  days  ago,  now,  you  know.  He 
is  better,  and  wants  very  much  to  see  you." 

"  Doctor  Jay  Conway  Lansing's  ?  "  I  repeated, 
trying  to  think  what  that  name  ought  to  recall  to  me. 

"  Why,  yes,"  returned  Harry,  flushing  uneasily. 
<l  That  was  where  Mr.  Randolph's  friend  was,  you 
know.  He  —  Miss  Cara,  he  is  quite  safe ;  he  is 
much  better  now,  and  he  wants  to  tell  you  about 
it  all  himself.  I  was  only  to  assure  you  that  he  is 
safe  and  desires  to  see  you." 

I  framed  some  small  further  query  as  to  Frank's 
present  state,  which  brought  me  another  reassuring 
reply,  and  some  details  as  to  the  last  illness  and 
death  of  Frank's  mother. 

When  we  turned  in  at  the  gate,  I  was  a  little 
surprised  to  note  that  "  Doctor  Lansing's  "  was  a 
hospital,  and  not  a  private  house. 

I  saw  the  doctors,  the  white-capped  nurses,  the 
long,  glimmering  corridors,  as  in  a  dream.  Still 
as  one  who  dreams,  I  heard  and  answered  the  ques- 
tions which  were  put  to  me,  and  then  a  door  was 
pushed  open,  a  tall,  fine-looking  woman  in  a  nurse's 
cap  said  to  Harry,  "  Oh,  yes,  he  is  quite  safe  —  out 
of  all  danger." 

We  were  about  to  enter  another  door,  when  it 
opened,  and  a  man  came  quickly  and  softly  out, 
whom  Harry  called  Doctor  Lansing. 


<&     "In  the  House  of  A  Stranger "  «$»  401 

"Is  this  she?"  he  inquired,  taking  me  by  the 
shoulder  with  easy  authority,  and  added  instantly, 
with  a  keen,  kindly,  reassuring  look  at  me: 

"  Go  in  directly,  my  dear.  You  are  the  only  medi- 
cine needed  now.  Go  immediately  to  him,  or  he  will 
be  trying  to  rise  to  receive  you.  Don't  let  him  do 
so  —  don't  let  him  attempt  to  stand,  to  sit,  or  even 
to  raise  his  head.  That  is  all."  And  with  a  smile 
and  a  reassuring  pat  upon  the  shoulder  he  had  held, 
he  opened  the  door,  and  Harry  and  I  passed  through 
it.  Harry  motioned  me  forward  to  the  inner  room, 
and  drew  the  heavy  curtain  across  behind  me. 

And  there  on  a  couch  by  the  window,  his  face 
turned  eagerly  toward  the  doorway,  lay  Frank,  fully, 
indeed  scrupulously  dressed,  but  with  a  light  wrap 
thrown  ov.er  him. 

It  needed  not  Doctor  Lansing's  admonition  to 
hasten  my  steps,  when  I  saw  the  marks  of  these 
bitter  months  and  his  brief  illness  upon  his  dear 
face,  and  noted  his  instant  effort  to  rise. 

I  was  across  the  room  almost  in  a  breath,  kneeling 
beside  the  couch,  my  face  leaned  to  Frank's,  whisper- 
ing only,  "  I  am  so  sorry.  Can  I  help  any  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  long  and  piteously  before  he 
kissed  me.  "  Do  you  really  care  to  come  back  to 
me  ?  "  he  whispered.  "  I  wonder  at  you,  dearest. 
I  wonder  at  the  hearts  of  women.  You  know  what 
I  said,  and  even  you  do  not  know  what  I  felt,  when 
we  parted.  I  told  you  I  would  never  open  a  letter 
of  yours,  that  I  would  never  hear  a  message  from 
you.  Didn't  I  ?  Was  not  that  what  I  said  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Frank,  do  not  "  — 

"  No,  dearest,  let  me  speak.  Let  me  tell  you  all. 
I  hardly  believe  you  knew  how  fiercely  resentful 


402         «^»         The  Last  Word  «9» 

I  felt  toward  you  when  I  went  to  Virginia.  I  felt 
that  you,  not  I  —  had  made  the  gulf  which  was 
between  us.  I  blamed  you  with  it  all,  and  myself 
not  one  whit.  I  was  simply  blind  to  your  side  of  it. 
To  me,  your  course  was  a  wanton,  causeless  cruelty, 
and  I  said  to  myself  over  and  over  that  you  must 
not  come,  woman  fashion,  repenting  of  it,  to  patch 
a  half-hearted  peace,  and  then  do  this  blind  foolish 
cruelty  over.  I  promised  myself  that  I  would  accept 
no  letter  from  you  —  Cara,  did  you  ever  think  of 
writing  to  me?  " 

"  I  was  writing  letters  to  you  all  my  waking 
hours,"  I  answered  him.  "  That  was  my  one 
dream." 

"  And  I  was  receiving  them  and  tearing  them  up, 
or  sending  them  back  unopened.  Can  you  forgive 
me  that,  too,  dear?  Sometimes  the  things  which 
are  thought  and  not  done  are  hardest  to  pardon." 

I  nodded,  with  my  lips  pressed  hard  together,  and 
my  eyes  full  of  tears.  This  was  bitter,  but  I  man- 
aged finally  to  whisper,  "  I  have  forgotten  it,  Frank." 

"  That  is  better  than  forgiving,"  he  said.  "  Why 
sweetheart,  look  at  it.  I  was  going  to  be  a  sort  of 
god,  wasn't  I?  I  was  not  going  to  receive  your 
messengers.  But  they  were  inside  the  fortress;  the 
very  blood  in  my  veins  kept  you  with  me,  till  I 
thought  I  should  go  mad.  Then  came  the  telegram 
announcing  my  mother's  illness.  That  is  what  I 
want  to  tell  you  about." 

He  was  silent  so  long  after  that,  that  I  said 
finally,  "  Don't  speak  of  it,  if  it  hurts  you  to  do  so." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  it  will  be  a  relief.  I  am 
the  youngest,  you  know,  Cara,  the  baby  of  the 
family  —  her  baby,  whom  she  loved  to  call  pet 


«$»     "  In  the  House  of  A  Stranger"  «$»  403 

names.  They  sent  for  me  when  they  believed  that 
she  was  not  really  ill,  but  just  discouraged  and 
unhappy.  There  had  been  trouble.  She  was  called 
upon,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  to  face  disgrace. 
Do  you  know  about  my  sister's  husband,  Cara?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  He  left  her  and  absconded  about  four  months 
ago.  He  had  beggared  the  lot  of  us,  gambling  in 
futures,  and  one  thing  and  another.  He  was  manag- 
ing the  estate  there  at  home,  and  when  he  saw 
the  ruin  that  was  coming,  he  converted  what  he  could 
into  cash  and  fled.  They  thought  it  was  the  shock  of 
it  which  made  my  mother  ill." 

I  felt  that  Frank  would  be  a  tower  of  strength 
in  such  a  household  as  this  man  must  have  left 
behind. 

"  My  eldest  brother  is  abroad,  you  know " 
(Fithian  Randolph  was  minister  to  some  South 
American  State).  "Henry  was  out  of  health  and 
wintering  in  Bermuda,  where  they  get  mail  but 
once  in  two  weeks.  He  is  at  home  now,  but  when 
1  went  there  was  only  mother  and  my  sister  Lee, 
with  the  cousins  you  met  in  Washington. 

"  Ours  is  an  iron  property ;  up  there  in  the  Vir- 
ginia mountains;  magnetic  ore  mines,  and  a  blast 
furnace.  My  brother-in-law  had  left  things  in  such 
condition  that  the  furnace  fires  were  let  to  go  out, 
making  a  loss  of  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  dollars 
—  indeed,  almost  destroying  the  furnace ;  and  worst, 
the  men  came  clamouring  unpaid,  and  my  poor 
women  felt  that  the  deluge  had  arrived.  They 
thought  it  no  wonder  that  even  my  bra ve -hearted 
mother  took  to  her  bed. 

"  When  I  came,  and  matters  were  straightened 


404         «f»         The  Last  Word  *&• 

out,  as  nearly  as  they  could  be  with  the  spectacle  of 
poor  Lee's  wretchedness  before  us,  and  the  sight  of 
her  fatherless  children,  mother  did  not  recover  as 
we  had  hoped. 

"  We  had  a  medical  consultation,  and  the  agree- 
ment seemed  to  be  that  she  would  really  be  in  a 
dangerous  state  soon  unless  she  could  be  roused  to 
understand  her  condition.  The  doctors  thought 
such  rousing  would  come  better  from  me  than  from 
one  of  them.  I  had  been  there  five  weeks  then,  and 
instead  of  being  better,  she  was  rather  worse.  The 
plan  was  that  I  should  go  in  and  remind  her  how 
much  depended  upon  her,  urge  her  to  make  an 
effort,  speak  almost  harshly  —  all  for  her  good." 
He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"  But  you  wouldn't  do  that,  Frank,"  I  said  con- 
fidently. I  remembered  his  devotion  to  his  mother. 
"  You  would  have  understood,  whether  they  did  or 
not.  You  would  know." 

"  No,  I  didn't  understand,"  he  said  wearily.  "  I 
begin  to  believe  that  I  have  been  a  great,  stupid, 
overbearing  brute  all  my  days.  I  let  them  persuade 
me  to  go  in  and  scold  her.  She  was  lying  on  a  low 
couch,  which  she  had  had  them  bring  before  the 
fire  for  her.  You  know  I  told  you  she  was  always 
the  most  beautiful  and  the  sweetest  creature  in  the 
world  to  me.  She  took  my  foolish  boy's  talk  very 
sweetly.  '  Francie,'  she  said,  —  that  was  her  baby 
name  for  me,  —  *  I  take  the  medicine  this  poor 
fellow  leaves  for  me,  so  that  I  may  not  hurt  his 
feelings.  I  went  to  Doctor  Leith  a  year  ago,  and 
he  gave  me  then  six  months  to  stay  with  you  all. 
I  did  not  want  to  go,  son ;  I  wanted  to  stay  and  see 
my  baby  happy  in  a  home  of  his  own ;  and  I  have  held 


«t»     "In  the  House  of  A  Stranger"  «$»  405 

on  for  twice  the  time  Robert  Leith  gave  me;  but 
I  begin  to  feel  that  I  am  worn  out;  I  can't  try  any 
more.'  " 

My  heart  was  so  full  of  pity  for  poor  Frank 
that  again  I  urged  him  to  tell  me  no  more. 

"  No,  no,  let  me  tell  you  all  about  her,"  he 
persisted.  "  You  can  never  know  her  now,  and 
somehow  the  talking  of  her  to  you  helps  the  pain 
of  that  disappointment.  She  was  the  brightest, 
bravest  spirit  that  was  ever  lodged  in  a  frail  tene- 
ment. The  rheumatism  from  which  she  always  suf- 
fered had  attacked  the  valves  of  the  heart.  There 
must  have  been  much  pain,  but  she  made  no  sign. 
They  had  not  thought,  at  home  there,  that  she 
seemed  ailing  or  distressed  during  the  past  year. 
But  now,  when  reckoning  was  made,  they  could 
see  how  she  had  steadily  failed. 

"  '  Why  son,'  she  said,  with  a  little  whispered 
laugh,  as  I  sat  beside  her  and  fondled  her  hand,  and 
wondered  what  was  the  earliest  possible  instant  that 
we  could  expect  Doctor  Leith,  and  if  he  could  do 
any  good  when  'he  came,  '  Why  son,  I  am  near 
seventy,  and  very  tired.  I  have  been  living  for  a 
year  not  only  against  Doctor  Leith's  convictions,  but 
against  my  own.  I  should  be  away,  dear  —  I  should 
be  away.  But  before  I  go  I  must  have  a  long,  long 
talk  with  my  boy.'  And  then,  Cara,  she  spoke  of 
you." 

"Of  me!"  I  cried. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  She  never  heard  of  you. 
She  never  saw  you,  but  I  can  call  it  nothing  else." 

"  '  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  my  son,'  she  said  to  me, 
'  about  the  woman  you  love  '  —  you  see  she  spoke  of 
you,  Cara*  I  suppose  she  meant  that  if  there  were 


406         «$»         The  Last  Word  «£> 

not  already  such  a  woman,  there  would  be  some  day 
after  she  was  gone.  But  oh,  my  dear,  it  seemed 
as  though  death  had  made  her  eyes  so  clear  that  she 
knew  all  about  us,  you  and  me ;  for  she  began  again  : 
'  You  must  not  treat  her  as  men  generally  treat  their 
wives,  Francis.  You  are  too  good  a  man  to  fall 
into  those  errors,  and  you  are  my  son.  By  the 
long  dreary  years  of  my  own  ruined  life,  I  want  you 
to  promise  me  that  you  will  ruin  no  woman's  life 
for  her.' ' 

"  Cara,  I  felt  as  if  the  solid  earth  had  slipped 
beneath  my  feet.  Here  was  mother,  my  mother, 
the  serenest,  best  content  wife  and  mother,  whom  I 
had  mentally  held  up  to  all  restless  dissatisfied 
womankind,  talking  to  me  of  her  ruined  life.  It 
•was  one  of  the  eternal  verities  proving  untrue. 

"  She  answered  my  look,  but  not  my  words,  '  Oh, 
yes,'  she  said,  '  your  father  was  a  good  man.  He 
meant  well.  But  Frantic,  if  you  will  give  a  mo- 
ment's thought  to  my  situation,  you  must  know  what 
sort  of  life  I  have  led.  Why,  my  dear,  it  is  my 
blood  that  is  in  your  veins.  They  are  my  ambitions 
that  you  have  carried  out.  Your  father  was  a  plain, 
quiet,  slothful  man.  He  had  the  Floyd  indolence 
and  the  Randolph  strength.  But  he  was  not  willing 
to  be  lazy  alone.  I  must  sit  down  beside  him  and 
fold  my  hands,  and  lead  a  life  that  was  a  living  death 
to  me,  for  his  pleasure.  It's  the  Lee  ambition  you 
have  —  and  that  I  had.' 

"  I  looked  over  at  my  sister.  I  was  in  torment, 
Cara ;  and  I  asked,  '  Won't  it  hurt  her,  Lee,  to  talk 
so  much  ? ' 

"  '  Better  let  her  have  her  say,'  Lee  answered  me. 


^     "In  the  House  of  A  Stranger "  <&  407 

'  We  women  are  taught  to  die  rather  than  speak  out. 
Maybe  it  will  be  a  relief  to  her.' 

"I  sat  there  all  that  night,  Cara ;  and  mother 
dozed  and  waked  and  rambled  on.  Oh,  I  got  a 
lifetime's  education  in  the  heart  of  woman  during 
those  ten  dark  hours.  I  suppose  I  had  to  have  it, 
little  girl.  It  is  likely  I  would  not  have  accepted 
it  from  any  other  source ;  but  it  seemed  to  me,  when 
it  came  in  that  way,  that  it  was  rending  me  soul 
from  body.  There  were  one  or  two  things  she  said, 
dear,  that  were  the  same  you  have  said  to  me,  and 
which  I  have  most  resented  from  you.  She  said 
them  in  almost  your  words.  And  when  I  would  look 
over  to  sister  for  a  little  help,  she  would  nod  to  me 
and  look  at  me  out  of  those  haggard  eyes  of  hers; 
and  I  felt  as  though  the  whole  world  of  women  held 
me  accused  for  a  brute  and  a  tyrant. 

"  Mother  died  next  morning  just  as  day  was 
breaking.  She  had  always  been  fragile,  but  some- 
how I  never  associated  the  idea  of  death  with  her, 
and  when  it  came  it  seemed  unbearable. 

"  We  sat  with  her  the  next  night  again,  sister  and 
I  alone.  I  would  not  let  any  of  the  rest  of  the 
family  or  friends  do  that  for  her.  Again  we  talked 
all  night.  I  had  almost  said  that  mother  was  silent 
that  night;  but  it  seemed  to  me,  for  part  of  the 
time,  that  she  was  more  present  in  our  conversation 
than  she  had  been  the  night  before. 

"  My  God,  Cara !  Those  two  nights  were  two 
centuries  of  torment  to  me.  It  was  like  being 
born  again;  and  the  truth  that  was  revealed  to 
my  shrinking  eyes  I  can  never  forget.  Lee  began  by 
speaking  of  her  marriage.  I  was  a  boy  of  fifteen 
at  the  time  she  was  married,  but  I  remember  how 


408         «f»         The  Last  Word  «$» 

pleased  every  one  was  with  the  match.  She  used  to 
be  a  belle,  poor  girl,  and  the  brightest,  proudest, 
gayest  creature;  but  she  looked  my  mother's  age  as 
she  sat  beside  me  now. 

" '  I  was  madly,  insanely,  foolishly  happy,'  she 
said.  *  I  was  terribly  in  love  with  Dick.  I  remember 
as  though  it  were  yesterday,  my  wedding-day. 
Mother  had  turned  all  the  girls  out  of  the  room,  be- 
cause, she  said,  she  wanted  to  pin  my  veil  and  give 
the  little  final  touches  herself.  I  recollect  looking  up 
to  her,  as  she  worked  over  me,  and  saying,  "  Oh, 
mother,  I  am  so  happy,  —  I  am  so  blest !  Dick  will 
just  take  me  by  the  hand  and  lead  me  straight  into 
heaven.  My  feet  will  never  touch  earth  again." 

"  '  How  little  I  understood  the  reproof  she  gave 
me.  It  was  selfish  and  wrong,  she  said,  for  one 
person  to  depend  so  utterly  upon  another.  I  should 
neither  expect  Dick  to  make  my  happiness  for  me, 
nor  should  I  promise  to  make  his  entirely.  Mutual 
freedom,  mutual  help,  this  was  the  only  basis  of 
happiness  in  marriage.  Oh,  the  kind,  wise  saint! 
I  told  her,  too,  that  I  should  have  no  secrets  from 
Dick ;  that  my  every  thought  should  be  his,  and  that 
I  expected  a  like  confidence  in  return.  She  said  to 
me  that  this  would  be  very  monotonous.  She 
laughed  at  me  a  little,  and  added  that  nobody  ever 
did  it,  but  that,  if  they  did,  it  would  be  disastrously 
silly.' 

"  Sister  told  me  what  utter  shipwreck  her  mar- 
ried life  had  come  to,  inside  of  a  few  months.  '  I 
began,  you  know/  she  said,  '  with  the  idea  of  show- 
ing great  deference  to  Dick's  wishes.  He  was  natu- 
rally overbearing,  and  because  I  never  objected  to 
anything,  this  disposition  grew.  My  lack  of  oppo- 


«f»     "In  the  House  of  A  Stranger "  <+  409 

sition  wrought  his  tyranny  to  a  sort  of  frenzy.  If 
he  did  not  like  a  certain  dress,  I  was  never  allowed 
to  put  it  on  a  second  time.  The  way  in  which  my 
hair  should  be  arranged  was  dictated;  the  books 
I  should  read;  but  most  and  oftenest,  the  people 
whom  I  should  make  my  friends.  Think  of  that, 
Francis.  You  remember  a  little  of  what  I  used  to 
be  as  a  girl ;  and  think  of  me  living  like  that !  —  I 
am  actually  happier  now !  As  time  went  on,  I  began 
to  find  an  absolute  perversity  in  all  the  orders  given 
me.  I  had  only  to  express  a  liking  for  a  person, 
an  amusement,  a  desire  for  a  journey,  or  a  certain 
book,  when  the  thing  became  anathema  to  him.  The 
books,  the  things,  the  people  which  I  did  not  like, 
I  could  have  indefinitely;  but  let  me  like  a  thing, 
let  me  show  a  spark  of  interest  in  a  thing,  and  it 
was  tabooed  for  ever.' ' 

"  But  you  are  not  like  that,  Frank ! "  I  cried. 
"  You  were  never  like  that." 

"  It  is  but  a  matter  of  degree,  I  think,"  said 
Frank.  "  I  recognised  my  very  spirit  in  it.  Oh, 
I  do  not  mean  that  I  recognised  it  at  first  sight ;  but 
after  those  two  women  who,  with  yourself,  are  the 
creatures  I  love  best  in  the  world,  had  talked  to 
me  like  unbodied  souls  through  two  long  nights,  I 
tell  you  I  began  to  see  things.  Now,  Cara,  dearest, 
I  don't  advise  you  to  take  this  man,  Francis  Ran- 
dolph. But  if  your  wayward  heart  still  clings  to 
him,  why,  there  is  one  thing  certain,  love :  you  have 
a  better  bargain  than  you  would  have  had  three 
months  ago.  You  have  got  a  man  who  is  fit  to  live 
with.  Just  prove  me  and  see." 

"  I  don't  want  any  proofs,"  I  said,  laying  my 
cheek  against  his. 


4i o         «f>         The  Last  Word  «f» 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  have  them.  You  shall  have 
them,"  he  murmured,  putting  up  a  wavering  hand 
to  caress  my  face.  "  Ah,  you  see,  after  all,  I  am  a 
tyrant.  I  cannot  help  trying  to  make  you  do  the 
things  to  which  you  object." 

I  slipped  my  arm  under,  and  drew  the  beautiful 
head  to  me  —  into  the  hollow  of  my  shoulder,  my 
cheek  upon  the  clustering  dark  hair;  and  Frank 
nestled  there  like  a  weary  child  who  has  found  its 
mother's  arms  at  last. 

"  Frank,"  I  said,  softly. 

"  Yes,  Carita,  my  darling." 

"  I  think  in  all  these  months  —  there  are  thirteen 
of  them,  now  —  since  we  sat  and  talked  together  in 
the  train,  I  never  looked  at  this  dear,  beautiful  head 
of  yours  without  the  fleeting  thought  of  holding  it 
so  on  my  arm,  my  breast.  You  say  you  are  three 
years  older  than  I,  but  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  dearest.  You  must  remember  I 
said  I  loved  your  mother-like  as  well  as  lover-like 
heart.  I  believe  the  mother  attitude  is  the  loving 
woman's  attitude  toward  all  mankind  —  including 
her  father  and  her  grandfather." 

Presently  Frank  began  again : 

"  It  is  blessed  and  sweet  of  you,  and  everything 
that  is  dear,  to  come  to  me  with  a  heart  full  of 
forgiveness.  It  is  like  you,  Cara,  but  it  is  not 
what  I  was  expecting  —  not  what  I  deserve." 

"  You  are  to  deserve  everything,"  I  murmured. 

"  I  sent  for  you,"  Frank  went  on,  "  dear  little 
tender-hearted  girl,  to  tell  you  something  which  will 
hurt  you  less,  I  think,  from  me  than  another.  Bush- 
rod  died  Thursday  night  here  in  this  hospital." 

My  arm  relaxed ;  I  laid  Frank's  head  gently  back 


«9»     "In  the  House  of  A  Stranger  "  «f»  411 

on  his  pillows.  Then  I  got  up,  blindly,  went  over 
to  the  window,  and  looked  out  with  unseeing  eyes 
over  the  many  roofs  and  chimneys.  Such  hives  of 
humanity  —  and  not  one  place  in  it  for  that  poor 
soul !  Again  I  saw  him  as  on  that  last  day,  dishev- 
elled, torn,  put  from  himself.  The  recollection  was 
unbearable.  "Did  Jim  tell  you?"  I  asked  in  a 
choking  voice. 

"  Yes,  love,  he  told  me.  Come  and  sit  by  me, 
dear.  I  have  something  to  show  you." 

I  went  and  sat  by  his  pillow,  on  a  low  seat,  and 
he  began,  slowly,  and  barely  above  a  whisper. 

"  When  we  got  back  to  the  house  from  my 
mother's  funeral,  Jim  was  there.  He  did  not  apolo- 
gise for  having  come,  though  I  could  see  he  would 
not  have  done  so  if  he  had  been  informed.  You 
know  I  always  liked  him;  that  fine,  frank  face  of 
his  would  always  be  good  to  meet  —  and  then  he 
had  just  come  from  seeing  and  being  with  you,  and 
my  heart  cried  out  for  some  knowledge  of  you. 

"  He  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  library,  and  wrhen 
I  came  to  him,  he  gripped  my  hand,  then  put  his 
own  on  my  shoulder  and  told  me  —  in  that  wonder- 
ful, brief,  yet  feeling  way  of  his,  about  Bush.  He 
said : 

"  '  Mr.  Randolph,  he  is  not  getting  well  as  he 
ought  —  a  great  fine  fellow  like  Bush.  I  worried 
over  him,  and  finally,  yesterday,  I  hunted  up  Doctor 
Lansing  himself,  and  asked  him  about  it.  He  used 
a  good  many  long  technical  words,  but  I  finally 
made  out  that  he  was  telling  me  that  folks  just  die 
sometimes  because  they  don't  care  to  get  well.  As 
near  as  I  could  make  out,  it's  —  well,  it  is  what  they 
call  in  novels  a  broken  heart,  He  said  that  Bush 


412         «$»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

needed  somebody  else's  cheer  and  strength;  some- 
body who  loved  him  and  —  and  believed  in  him  — 
because  he'd  got  where  he  couldn't  believe  in  him- 
self. He  said  that  if  Bush  had  a  relative  —  father, 
brother  —  who  would  come  and  give  him  a  big  lift, 
it  might  do  the  trick.' 

"  '  All  right,  Jim/  I  said,  '  I  will  go  to-morrow 
morning  —  I  will  be  there  Thursday  night.' ' 

Frank  put  out  his  hand  and  took  mine,  and  said, 
something  in  his  old  tone,  "  That  Texan  of  yours 
is  a  real  man.  Think  of  it,  dear.  I  was  poor  Bush's 
cousin;  we  were  like  brothers;  and  at  the  last  he 
receives  brotherly  kindness  from  this  man,  born  a 
thousand  miles  from  his  home,  and  who  was  almost 
a  stranger  to  him.  It  was  my  part  only  to  goad  the 
poor  fellow,  to  bring  his  every  petty  failing  home 
to  him  —  when,  God  knows,  I  had  enough  in  my 
own  heart  to  look  after." 

I  could  not  honestly  say  to  him  that  he  had  not 
been  cruel  to  his  cousin ;  and  this  was  an  era  of 
truth.  He  went  on,  "  I  sneered  at  him  because  he 
was  weak.  I  was  proud  of  my  strength ;  and  he  had 
more  love  and  more  humanity  in  one  of  his  days 
than  I  in  all  my  miserable  years." 

"  It  can  do  no  good  to  miscall  yourself  now, 
Frank.  You  did  what  seemed  right  to  you.  You 
couldn't  see.  You  couldn't  look  forward ! " 

"  You  don't  know  how  hard  I  was,"  said  Frank 
(but  I  thought  I  did).  "  I  remember  the  last  time 
we  talked  together,  it  was  about  you,  Cara.  I  told 
him  —  I  threatened  him  "  —  the  words  seemed  hard 
to  get  out,  and  then  they  came  with  a  rush.  "  It  was 
about  the  verses  he  had  written  to  you." 

"  Oh,  Frank,"  I  cried,  "  not  that! " 


«£»     "  In  the  House  of  A  Stranger  "  «£»  413 

"  Yes,  that,"  said  Frank.  "  I  descended  to  that. 
Oh,  you  are  to  know  the  worst  of  me  now,  dearest, 
and  then,  as  we  used  to  say  about  superfluous  puppies 
or  kittens,  '  You  may  kill  me  or  keep  me/  just  as 
you  choose." 

"  I  keep  you,"  I  whispered,  and  he  went  on. 

"  You  would  never  guess  how  Bush  took  it.  At 
first  that  big,  fair  face  of  his  puckered  up  like  a 
baby's  about  to  cry,  and  he  said,  '  Did  she  show 
you  those  poems,  Frank  Randolph?  Did  Cara  do 
that  ?  '  When  I  told  him  that  you  had  not,  and  that 
we  had  quarrelled  because  I  found  them  and  read 
them,  he  looked  at  me  and  his  eyes  glowed  as  if  I 
had  paid  him  a  compliment. 

*  So  Cara  thought  enough  of  them  to  keep  them 
in  her  table  drawer,  did  she?  God  bless  her  heart! ' 
he  said.  Then  he  turned  to  me  and  added,  '  Why, 
for  the  Lord's  sake,  Frank,  you're  not  jealous  of  me! 
You  know  it  doesn't  count,  that  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference.  Her  being  kind  to  me  wouldn't  take  any- 
thing from  you !  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I'd  as  soon 
be  jealous  of  a  dead  man/ ' 

I  stopped  him,  gently.  "  Don't,  dearest,"  I  said. 
"  He  wouldn't  have  wished  to  hurt  you  —  don't 
try  to  hurt  yourself.  Tell  me  how  he  went  away, 
instead.  Why,  I  thought  he  was  to  be  well  and 
strong,  and  go  out  to  visit  Jim." 

"  Yes,  dear,  we  thought  that.  It  came  on  me, 
the  suddenest,  hardest  blow  of  anything;  for  I  had 
thought  to  —  to  make  things  so  different,"  and  his 
eyes  sought  mine  sadly. 

"  I  came  straight  here  from  the  train.  I  had 
young  Brant  with  me.  They  met  me  at  the  door, 
and,  when  I  gave  my  name,  took  us  immediately  to  a 


414         *&         The  Last  Word  «$» 

private  room.  I  caught  sight  of  Bush  as  we  went  in, 
and  hurried  to  the  bed,  saying,  '  Why,  old  man, 
this  won't  do ! '  or  something  of  that  sort.  Then,  in 
an  instant,  I  saw  and  felt  a  start  of  surprise  in 
those  about,  went  and  put  my  hand  on  Bush's  face, 
and  found  it  cold! 

"  Something  that  had  been  tied  up  tight  in  my 
head  for  weeks  gave  way.  I  heard  Harry  cry  out, 
and  never  knew  anything  more  till  a  few  hours  ago." 

"  Why,  dear,  how  could  such  a  thing  happen  ?  " 
I  asked,  resentfully.  "  Why  did  they  not  tell  you  ?  " 

"  They  were  not  to  blame,"  explained  Frank, 
"  they  had  sent  to  my  rooms  the  moment  they  knew 
he  was  dead.  They  supposed  I  had  come  in 
response  to  the  message." 

After  a  moment's  silence  Frank  asked,  softly, 
"  Shall  I  tell  you  now  how  he  died,  Cara  ?  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  myself,  you  know,  dear." 

"  Frank,"  I  said  as  low,  leaning  my  cheek  beside 
his,  "  Jove  is  a  great,  big,  heavenly  thing.  It  is  not 
so  small  that  it  can  only  hold  two  people.  You 
know  —  do  you  ?  —  I  loved  —  I  love  Bushrod." 

"How  could  you  help  it,  my  loving  darling?" 
returned  Frank  gently.  "  Poor  Bush  was  nothing 
but  love  —  and  he  adored  you,  humbly." 

"  He  —  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  say  it  so 
you  will  understand  me,  dear  —  he  —  " 

"  I  believe  I  shall.    Go  on,  my  little  girl." 

"  There  was  a  kind  of  sweetness,  of  nearness  — 
that  is  it,  nearness  —  I   felt  toward  him,   Frank; 
more  than  toward  —  even  —  even  you." 

Frank  smiled,  and  pressed  my  hand  comprehend- 
ingly,  and  I  went  on.  "  I  don't  know,  somehow  — 
he  asked  so  little  —  there  could  never  be  anything 


«f»     "In  the  House  of  A  Stranger "  «^»  415 

for  him,  it  seemed  to  me.  I  felt  an  aching  tender- 
ness for  him.  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  his 
failures  —  of  his  being  hurt  —  of  what  life  would 
do  to  him.  I  think  it  is  the  mother  in  every  woman, 
which  cried  out  in  me  for  poor  Bushrod.  Surely, 
if  he  had  been  something  of  my  own,  my  little 
helpless  child,  I  could  not  have  yearned  in  deeper 
pity  and  tenderness  over  him  and  his  griefs." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  do  comprehend.  And  now,  Carita," 
he  said,  huskily,  "  the  thing  I  have  to  show  you  —  it 
is  his  last  word  —  poor  boy.  He  had  written  a 
portion  of  this  letter,  and  on  Thursday  afternoon 
the  nurse  urged  him  to  sleep,  and  refused  to  give 
him  back  his  paper  and  pencils.  She  said  he  laughed 
and  coaxed  her  —  you  know  how  winning  he  could 
be.  She  wept  when  she  told  me.  She  finally  let 
him  have  a  pencil,  and  he  took  her  tiny  pad  of 
prescription  papers  from  the  stand,  and  was,  she 
thought,  writing  a  few  moments,  till  he  slept.  She 
never  left  the  room,  but  when  she  went  to  him  a 
little  later  she  found  that  he  slept  indeed." 

I  was  crying  quietly.  Frank's  pale,  pathetic  face 
looked  at  me,  with  its  sorrowful  eyes,  and  he  went 
on: 

"  I  thought  at  first  that  it  would  hurt  you  too 
much  —  that  I  would  not  give  it  to  you.  And  then 
I  asked  myself,  who  was  I,  to  deny  him  his  last  word 
to  the  woman  he  loved?  It  is  what  I  would  have 
done  while  he  lived  —  it  is  what  I  did  do,  Cara. 
Now  I  cannot  shut  the  door  upon  his  pleading  face 
—  you  must  see  it  —  even  though  the  sight  teach 
you  to  hate  me  afresh." 

Frank  reached  to  the  little  table  beside  him,  opened 
a  drawer  and  drew  out  a  letter.  I  recognised  the 


4i 6         +•        The  Last  Word  -^ 

frail,  dainty  characters,  and  a  shiver  of  apprehen- 
sion went  through  me. 

I  looked  at  this  letter  and  the  hand  that  proffered 
it  to  me,  and  at  a  stroke  of  remembrance  Doctor 
Lansing's  bright,  many-windowed  room,  which  after 
all  was  a  sick-room  in  a  hospital,  dissolved  from 
my  vision.  Again  I  stood  in  the  library  of  the  Ran- 
dolph house  in  Washington,  and  listened  to  the  bell- 
like  monotone  of  Abdul  Tewfik's  voice.  I  was  gaz- 
ing into  the  crystal,  with  its  dull  green  reflection 
from  the  silk  below  it.  I  could  smell  the  faint  odour 
of  the  roses  whose  heavy  heads  lay  across  my  arm, 
and  see  the  frail,  scentless  beauty  of  poor  Bushrod's 
orchids  mingled  with  them. 

Here  was  my  letter  coming  by  Frank's  hand,  from 
Bushrod.  Here  was  that  letter  which  Abdul  Tew- 
fik  had  told  me  I  was,  even  at  that  time,  preparing. 

Frank's  voice  recalled  me. 

"  There  are  some  allusions  in  it,"  he  said,  "  which 
you  may  not  understand.  We  were  brought  up  to- 
gether. He  was  a  little  older  than  I,  and  Cara,  he 
loved  you  very  dearly.  I  wanted  you  to  read  his 
letter  here  where  my  hand  can  reach  you  —  and  to 
try  to  forgive  me,  dear,  for  I  can  never  forgive 
myself." 

"  Oh,  Frank !  "  I  whispered.  "  We  will  have  only 
love  and  trust  in  our  lives.  There  will  be  no  room 
for  hatred,  or  jealousy,  or  for  even  the  poor  ghost 
forgiveness." 

And  together  we  read  the  little  packet  of  sheets. 
Of  odd  sizes  and  shapes  they  were,  written,  one 
could  see,  from  time  to  time,  and  on  such  bits  of 
paper  as  came  to  hand  at  the  moment,  though  all 
were  alike  in  tidiness,  and  in  the  daintiness  of  the 
little  characters  upon  them. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

"  The   Race   Unrun  ' 

"  And  like  an  army  in  the  snow 

My  days  went  by  —  a  treacherous  train, 
Each  smiling  as  he  struck  his  blow, 
Until  I  lay  among  them,  slain." 

FIRST  came  a  little  packet  of  open  sheets.  Among 
them  were  desultory  beginnings  of  sketches  at  top 
or  corner,  and  the  work  seemed  to  have  been  com- 
menced as  a  sort  of  diary. 

"  These  were  written  when  he  began  to  fail," 
Frank  explained  to  me.  "  They  tell  me  that  when 
he  was  first  brought  here  —  before  his  mind  cleared 
—  his  body  mended  rapidly.  Then,  one  of  the  nurses 
says  that  he  made  some  inquiries  of  her  as  to  the  date 
and  manner  of  his  coming,  and  that  she  thinks  he 
questioned  Jim,  too,  afterward.  They  were,  as  they 
always  are,  guarded  and  discreet  in  their  answers  — 
and  as  cheering,  of  course  —  as  they  could  be; 
but  you  can  see  that  a  realisation  of  it  all  grew 
upon  him  —  Read  it,  dear." 

I  took  up  the  first  sheet  and  read : 

"  I  can  fence  no  longer  with  despair.  I  am  spent. 
My  limbs  are  powerless  for  flight  or  for  defence. 
When  I  heard  this  morning  from  my  nurse  what 
day  of  the  month  this  is,  when  I  was  brought  here 

417 


4i  8         <&•         The  Last  Word  -f- 

—  and  how —  (though,  poor  girl,  she  tried  not  to 
let  me  guess  that  last)  it  was  as  if  my  grim  assailant 
thrust  aside  the  feeble  defence  of  hoping  or  for- 
getting which  I  had  heretofore  held  between  us  like 
shielding,  outspread  hands,  and  laid  his  icy  touch 
upon  my  heart.  And  all  its  broods  of  little  nestling 
hopes  spread  their  soft  wings  and  fled  in  trembling- 
flight  where  love's  bright  head  had  lit  the  way." 

I  turned  and  caught  Frank's  hand.  "  I  cannot 
bear  that  he  should  have  felt  himself  deserted,"  I 
breathed.  "  It  was  not  so.  Indeed  I  would  —  any 
or  all  of  us  would  —  have  come  to  him  at  any  time. 
Did  no  one  tell  him  so?  " 

Frank  shook  his  head.  "  It  was  not  that.  Read 
on,"  he  answered ;  and  I  began  again : 

"  To  my  questioning,  she  answered  that  a  gentle- 
man by  the  name  of  Baxter  brought  me  here,  and 
that  he  calls  every  day.  He  is  to  be  allowed  to  see 
me  to-morrow,  if  I  continue  to  improve.  With  tears 
in  her  eyes  —  as  though  she  cared,  not  as  though 
she  were  paid  to  care  for  me  only  —  she  tells  me  that 
I  am  never  to  worry  —  it  would  be  bad  for  me  — 
that  I  shall  soon  be  back  among  my  friends. 

"  (O  God,  among  my  friends !  Dear  girl,  with  her 
pretty  cap,  her  smooth  hair,  her  kind,  deft  hands,  and 
her  mind  stored  with  prim  little  speeches  of  con- 
solation for  the  derelicts  she  handles,  how  little  she 
could  guess  the  blow  she  dealt  me  there!) 

"  She  tells  me  daily  that  the  doctor  says  if  I  am 
good,  and  try,  and  hope,  I  shall  soon  be  well.  And 
so  I  shall  be.  Soon  —  sooner  than  any  of  them 
think  —  I  shall  be  so  well  that  nothing  of  earthly  ail- 
ing can  touch  me  further. 

"  I  am  to  struggle  —  I,  for  whom  all  struggles 


«$»          "The  Race  Unrun"       «f»       419 

are  over  —  to  fan  and  blow  upon  this  waning  spark, 
that  it  may  smoulder  yet  a  little  longer,  and  burn 
me  once  more  before  I  am  at  rest! 
"  But  I  will  not.    I  am  done  with  it. 


"  I  slept  last  night,  and  dreamed  a  little  foolish 
dream  that  waked  me  laughing.  I  thought  that  we 
were  all  children  again  at  home  in  Virginia.  I  could 
see  the  big,  bare  old  nursery  in  the  glow  of  fire  and 
lamplight,  and  Mammy  Calline  going  to  and  fro 
to  lay  out  our  clothes  for  Sunday. 

"  Once,  when  the  new  things  were  bought,  I,  the 
taller  by  a  head,  must  have  a  larger  suit.  And 
Frank,  a  young  senator  of  six,  than  whom  none  must 
require  a  longer  toga,  cried  himself  sick  at  the 
thought.  I  remember  that  I  comforted  him  by  prom- 
ising that  we  should  exchange  suits  when  the  clothes 
came  home.  What  the  outcome  was,  I  have  forgot- 
ten, except  that  I  stole  from  my  small  bed  to  his,  and 
we  went  to  sleep  in  each  other's  arms,  planning  to 
outwit  Mammy  Calline  in  the  morning. 

"  Something  of  this  mixed  in  my  dream  with  Aunt 
Virginia  calling  us  to  her  knee,  as  she  often  did,  and 
saying :  '  You  are  both  my  dear  boys,  and  mean 
always  to  be  good ;  but  Bushrod  must  remember  that 
he  is  the  elder  and  knows  better  what  is  to  be  done 
—  and  Francie  must  remember  that,  too.' 

"If  I  had  died  then-      If- 

The  text  was  broken  here  by  pencilled  outlines, 
a  leaf,  a  bit  of  curving  border ;  and  later  the  voice 
resumed  in  a  new  note : 

"  What  curious  things  life  gives  us ;  not  always 
stones  for  bread  or  serpents  for  fish,  but  often  gro- 


420        «*»         The  Last  Word  <4> 

tesquely  inappropriate  gifts  which  we  cannot  use. 
I  remember  the  saying  Lee  had,  that  it  was  good  for 
Francie  and  good  for  me  that  both  should  know  and 
bear  in  mind  I  was  the  taller  and  handsomer 
boy.  I  can  see  her  radiant  young  face  puckered  to 
a  loving  intentness,  and  feel  her  slim,  jewelled  hand 
on  my  shoulder.  God  bless  her,  the  young  belle  and 
beauty  with  the  country-side  at  her  feet,  who  found 
time  in  her  full  and  happy  life  to  be  kind  to  an  over- 
sensitive child.  I  would  at  any  time  have  been 
willing  to  be  stunted  and  ugly  that  I  might  be  loved ; 
and  I  had  always  a  terror  of  any  gift  that  brought 
me  envy. 

"  If  I  had  died  then !    If  I  had  died  then  — 

"  Cruel  life !  It  has  stolen  my  years  —  my  lovely 
years,  in  which  I  might  have  lain  still  and  been  at 
rest  in  the  all-healing  arms  of  compassionate  death 
—  and  has  filled  them  with  hopes,  longings,  hungers 
for  which  it  had  never  fruition,  food,  or  answer; 
dreams  and  aspirations  that  but  left  its  own  hideous- 
ness  more  bare  and  terrible  when  they  withered  and 
died.  It  has  demanded  of  me  struggles  that  were 
always  vain  and  brought  only  wounds  to  my  empty 
hands. 

1  lifted  my  head.  Frank's  eyes  met  mine  with  a 
look  of  intolerable  pain.  "  You  see,  Cara,  while  I 
was  reproaching  him  with  his  inertia,  that  he  did 
not  make  haste  to  tread  the  path  I  had  marked  out 
for  him,  the  poor,  tender  soul  was  fighting  his  own 
battles  upon  the  terrible  battlefield  of  the  spirit. 
If  I  had  dreamed  of  his  hopes  —  his  ambitions  - 

I  turned  my  eyes  away,  and  lifted  another  of  the 
tiny  sheets. 

"  And  last,  it  gave  me  Love ;  to  snatch  him  from 


<£»          "The  Race  Unrun"       <&       421 

my  arms  while  yet  my  lips  blessed  it  for  the  boon. 
It  showed  me  delight,  and  while  my  enraptured  heart 
fainted  upon  the  threshold  of  its  beautiful,  unattain- 
able joy,  it  robbed  me  so  that  there  was  no  creature 
so  poor  and  desolate. 

"  It  has  always  thwarted  and  deceived  me ;  now 
it  has  betrayed  my  soul  utterly  to  pain  and  shame, 
thrust  me  into  a  corner,  and  turned  its  face  from  me. 

"  And  who  shall  say  I  dare  not  be  quit  of  it,  and 
creep  beneath  the  kindly  curtain? 

"  I  remember  now  a  home-coming  from  school 
(to  that  home  which  is  mine  no  more).  I  remember 
another  when  I  was  a  man  grown,  and  had  been 
abroad.  I  returned,  bringing  success  and  failure 
in  about  equal  measure.  I  had  done  well  enough, 
as  human  achievement  is  reckoned.  Those  who 
loved  me  were  still  willing  to  tincture  their  blame 
with  praise.  But  I  —  I  was  appalled,  abraded  in 
mind  and  spirit,  grieved  in  soul  by  the  cruelty  of 
men  to  men,  the  remorselessness  of  life  to  its  victims. 

"  I  had  then  some  inkling  —  some  faint  fore- 
shadowing —  of  what  I  know  now,  when  I  lie  here 
through  long  nights  and  stare  at  the  ceiling  and 
feel  myself  a  part  of  the  great  ache. 

"  When  the  .final  knowledge  of  disaster  came  to 
me  here,  this  body  of  flesh  seemed  to  me  only  a 
flimsy  and  inadequate  vessel  to  hold  the  fires  of  grief 
and  shame  and  agony  which  raged  in  it.  Swin- 
burne, or  Rossetti,  or  some  one  of  that  school  has 
written : 

" « Where,  when  the  gods  would  be  cruel. 
Do  they  go  for  a  torture  ?     Where 


42,2         «f»         The  Last  Word  «f» 

Plant  thorns,  set  pain  like  a  jewel  ? 
Ah,  not  in  the  flesh  —  not  there  ! 

" '  Mere  pangs  corrode  and  consume, 

Dead  when  life  dies  in  the  brain ; 
In  the  infinite  spirit  is  room 

For  the  pulse  of  an  infinite  pain.' 

"  I  could  never  recover  from  those  seizures  of 
despair  like  a  brave  soldier  ready  to  renew  an  attack; 
but  I  must  creep  back  like  a  young  and  trusting  child, 
and,  cheating  myself  with  hope,  try  once  more  to  be 
friends  with  the  world. 

"  And  so  perhaps,  when  I  shall  have  lain  for  ages 

—  pillowed  upon  repose,  lapped  and  folded  in  in- 
effable calm  as  in  a  garment,  brooded  by  sweet  for- 
getfulness,  tented  with  soft  darkness  and  surcease, 
walled  about  and  guarded  by  silence,  deep  in  the 
impenetrable  heart  of  trackless  and  untrodden  void 

—  if  my  spirit,  soothed  and  comforted,  were  then 
clothed  again  in  flesh,   it  might  yet  come  that  it 
should  be  well  with  me  —  even  here  —  even  here 
upon  this  earth  where  I  have  failed  so  irreclaimably. 


"  You  came  to  me  like  a  sweet  native  tongue  to 
an  exiled  and  homesick  heart  amid  surrounding 
jargon.  It  needed  not  that  you  should  have  beauty 
and  grace  and  genius.  These  things  were  dear ;  my 
heart  was  pleased  that  they  were  so;  but  it  was  the 
spirit  back  of  these  that  looked  out  and  commanded 
my  love.  You  entered  my  life  upon  its  simple,  daily, 
common  ways,  glanced  about,  and  spoke  and  smiled ; 
and  my  soul  —  knew  you,  I  would  have  said  —  no, 
it  remembered  you. 

"  And  with  that  remembrance  came  those  days 


«$»          "  The  Race  Unrun "       «£»       423 

when  I  worked  gladly,  and  my  work  prospered, 
because  I  was  love's  guest,  and  all  harms  and  base 
things  shrunk  aside  from  his  bright  panoply  in 
which  I  walked. 

"  No  check  could  touch  me  in  those  blessed  days, 
no  disappointment  chill  the  glow  of  life.  Love  held 
me  apart  from  sense  or  knowledge  of  discourage- 
ment or  defeat ;  and  I  talked  or  wrote  to  others  as  to 
but  slight  masks  over  the  loved  face  and  spirit,  till 
the  world  and  the  universe  looked  and  spoke  back  to 
rne  with  those  dear  eyes  and  that  dear  voice." 

I  had  read  so  far,  before  I  became  suddenly  aware 
that  the  words  were  addressed  personally  to  me. 
The  next  page  showed  me  that  they  were  indeed. 

"  The  shadow  is  on  us  from  our  birth.  We  always 
tremble  over  the  possession  of  too  perfect  a  happi- 
ness. Something  that  never  hurts  at  all  —  such  a 
joy  would  certainly  soon  be  torn  from  us.  But 
when  it  comes  as  this  came  to  me  (the  precious  boon, 
the  fulfilment  of  all  sweet  dreams)  bringing  with  it 
so  much  of  pain  —  when  the  thought  of  an  inevitable 
and  speedy  parting  tempered  all  my  joy  at  meeting, 
and  my  few  snatched  hours  of  sweet  companionship 
were  but  bits  of  drift  from  that  great  sea  of  absence 
and  longing  that  still  swelled  —  that  must  always 
swell  —  dark  between  me  and  my  heart's  desire,  I 
thought  I  might  dare,  away  in  some  secret  chamber 
of  my  heart  where  fate  could  not  see  me  at  all,  to 
be  happy  in  the  belief  that  such  a  happiness  would 
be  left  me  awhile. 

"  But  it  could  not  be.  This  happiness  of  mine 
was  shadowed  and  fragmentary  —  but  it  was  divine. 
Not  here,  oh,  not  here  in  this  dusk  antechamber, 
is  it  to  a  man  to  safely  light  his  little  taper  with  fire 


4^4        +        The  Last  Word  <+ 

from  Heaven's  altars,  and  feed  his  yearning  soul 
upon  celestial  bread,  and  wine  from  sacred  vessels. 


"  I  look  back  now  —  it  seems  a  long  time  —  to 
that  moment  when  I  waked  here  to  full  knowledge 
that  the  end  had  come ;  that  my  blind  stumbling  steps 
had  led  to  a  place  whence  I  could  never  retrace  them, 
never  find  a  way  back  to  life  and  the  things  of  life. 
I  remember  with  pity  —  as  though  it  were  another's 
— my  incredulous  agony,  and  how  I  yet  clung  to  the 
empty  body  of  my  life  that  had  held  my  love,  as 
people  cling  weeping  and  remonstrant  to  the  body 
of  a  dear  one  after  the  spirit  is  gone. 

"  I  could  not  know  then,  as  I  know  now,  how 
simple  was  the  remedy  for  my  suffering.  I  could 
not  turn  my  back,  at  once,  upon  a  world  which  had 
but  a  few  weeks  gone  given  me  such  happiness,  and 
which  yet  held  you  —  even  though  not  for  me. 

"  With  my  lips  I  said  nothing,  while  in  my  soul  I 
rebelled  and  cried  out  like  a  sick  and  peevish  child 
at  so  much  as  a  thought  of  the  only  physic  that  could 
medicine  my  ill.  But  all  is  changed  now,  and,  no 
longer  captious  or  critical,  I  stretch  eager  hands 
toward  the  welcome  cup,  thanking  the  stern  physi- 
cian humbly. 

"  This  is  a  sweet,  gray  afternoon.  I  wakened  a 
little  while  ago  from  an  hour's  quiet  sleep.  It  is 
the  first  slumber  I  have  known  for  weeks  which  was 
not  dream-haunted,  and  from  which  I  aroused  with- 
out foreboding.  Something  has  come  to  me ;  a  new 
word  has  been  spoken  to  my  spirit.  It  is  peace. 

"  They  call  such  surrender  as  this  of  mine  ignoble. 


«$»          "The  Race  Unrun"       «®»       425 

We  are  admonished  to  bear  our  burdens;  never  to 
lay  them  down,  nor  cease  to  strive  and  contend  and 
endure.  They  warn  us  that  the  soul  which  faints 
beneath  life's  whip,  and  hurries  unbidden  to  its  rest, 
goes  but  to  find  a  fiercer  scourge. 

"  But  I  have  a  sort  of  assurance  that  I  am  right. 
Here  in  my  heart,  there  is  now  a  peace  so  great  and 
blessed  that  I  cannot  find  any  word  to  describe  it. 
There  are  things  —  grand  organ  tones ;  the  silent, 
crystal  moonlight  brooding  on  a  sleeping  world ;  the 
calm  of  twilight  in  deep  woods ;  the  great  sea  lying 
hushed  under  its  solemn  stars;  these  should 
shadow  forth  something  of  my  peace,  my  pure, 
blessed,  steadfast  peace. 

"  My  idea  of  heaven  was  never  rapture.  I  have 
known  moments  of  rapture  here,  and  I  learned 
to  fear  them,  and  to  expect  close  in  their  fleeing 
footsteps,  those  their  haunting  followers  and  pur- 
suers, pain,  grief,  loss,  regret. 


"  I  know  that  when  I  am  gone  where  I  am  going, 
and  have  left  it  all,  they  will  still  strike  at  each 
other.  The  strong  will  still  break  the  hearts  of  the 
weak  who  love  them;  souls  will  be  hungered,  even 
to  death,  and  fain  to  feed  —  though  feeling  the 
shame  —  on  husks  of  shame.  But  those  who,  like 
me  unmailed,  are  torn  most  cruelly  by  the  tusks  of 
life,  who  must  fulfil  their  divinely  appointed  destiny 
and  love  unquestioning,  uncounting,  nor  ever  learn 
a  cold  and  prudent  thrift  of  soul;  whose  eyes  are 
affrayed  and  their  souls  daunted  by  the  inexorable 
conflict  where  all  seems  to  go  down  that  young  hope 
had  sworn  should  conquer  —  I  will  not  think  of 


426         «f»       The  Last  Word 


them !  Their  agony,  as  it  is  bitterest,  shall  be  brief- 
est. My  spiritual  kindred,  whose  reproofs  I  might 
now  dread,  shall  come  first  to  creep  in  beside  me, 
when  life  has  broken  them  on  its  wheel,  whispering 
to  me,  then,  that  out  of  all  my  mistakes  and  failures 
and  weaknesses  I  yet  found  a  remedy,  and  at  the 
last  I  was  wise." 

Here  ended  the  tiny  sheets.  The  remainder  was 
folded  like  a  letter,  but  no  name  was  written  upon  it. 
It  ran: 

"  There  is,  I  think,  in  all  this  big  world,  one 
creature  who  knows  and  loves  me.  To  that  one, 
then,  I  offer  my  last  word.  It  shall  be  my  explana- 
tion and  my  excuse. 

"  Once  more  I  am  down.  It  is  the  last  failure. 
I  never  can  rise  again.  I  have  no  wish  to.  I  have 
only  a  craving  hunger  for  rest  —  not  reprieve,  but 
release,  final  and  entire. 

"  Always  before  I  have  hoped ;  I  have  wanted  to 
retrieve,  to  struggle  on,  and  wring  a  reluctant  victory 
from  the  bitter  ashes  of  my  defeat.  But  now, 
it  is  as  though  I  had  tasted  in  anticipation  the  waters 
of  some  precious  and  forbidden  Lethe. 

"  I  have  turned  and  grasped  eagerly  —  as  though 
it-  were  a  new  thing  —  the  idea  of  death,  and  it 
satisfies.  For  life,  which,  in  my  secret  heart,  I  have 
loved  so  ardently,  which  I  have  followed  and  trusted 
and  looked  to  with  such  a  passion  of  hope  and  belief 
—  for  life,  I  have  no  other  feeling  than  terror  and 
hatred.  If  it  had  shown  me  at  the  outset  half  its 
bitterness  and  falseness,  I  should  long  since  have 
burst  my  fetters  and  been  free.  But  like  a  heartless 
and  cruel  coquette  it  has  led  me  on  from  year  to 
year  hoping  against  despair,  with  but  enough  of 


«9*          "The  Race  Unrun "        <&       427 

favour  to  keep  the  sick  and  cheated  heart  from  break- 
ing, till  the  things  which  my  soul  refused  to  touch 
are  become  my  sorrowful  meat. 


"  I  cannot  think  that  mine  was  more  than  an  inno- 
cent and  commendable  pride  and  hope.  Surely  it  is 
but  just  that  young,  sound,  well-dowered  creatures 
should  have  and  be  happy  in  thus  much  expectation 
and  gladness  —  a  trust  which  carries  much  of  its 
own  fulfilment  with  it.  Yet  it  seemed  to  me  that 
my  innocent  trust  in  life  had  been  held  by  life  a 
crime,  and  dashed  back  in  my  face  as  coals  of  grief 
and  pain  and  shame. 

"  Even  after  I  had  been  struck  many  times,  I  had 
faith  and  anticipation,  and  a  certain  belief  in  the 
ultimate  kindness  of  life  which  seemed  inextinguish- 
able. The  worst  (I  said)  would  never  befall  me. 
Surely  never  could  my  hope  and  confidence  shrink 
to  the  measure  of  despair.  Surely  never  could  they 
come  creeping,  distained  and  rejected,  to  cower 
shuddering  in  that  darkness  of  which  we  cannot 
endure  to  speak  out  to  ourselves  and  say,  '  This  is 
ruin.' 

"  But  those  places  of  injury  and  cruelty  so  terri- 
ble, whither,  I  said,  no  trusting  creature,  no  spirit  of 
the  finer  sort,  would  ever  be  thrust,  those  things  how 
soul-withering,  how  unspeakable,  of  which  I  said 
that  such,  at  least,  could  never  by  any  —  even  the 
evillest  event  —  come  upon  me ;  see  now,  those  are 
the  places  where  I  lie  broken,  not  protesting,  endeav- 
ouring no  more;  those  things  are  the  things  of 
my  life.  T  have  fallen  to  this,  that  I  endure  them 
and  live.  They  blast  and  rend  and  ravage  me  un- 
resisted. 


428         -f»         The  Last  Word  <& 

"  And  would  you,  O  very  heart  of  my  heart,  can 
you  say  you  hold  it  an  offence  in  me  —  can  it  cause 
you  to  remember  me  with  horror  —  that  all  these 
deep  and  cureless  wounds  which  life  has  dealt  me 
have  made  me  to  desire  death  as  the  only  remaining 
good,  to  yearn  for  it  and  long  to  lay  hold  upon  it? 
But  the  thought  of  its  beauty,  its  sweet  and  balmy 
stillness,  is  all  alone  in  my  heart. 


"  I  would  have  you  think,  as  I  do,  willingly, 
gladly,  almost  triumphantly,  that  this  coherent  dust 
which  now  is  me  may  be  afterward  blown  and 
shifted  about  by  joyous  airs,  or  bleak  and  unkind 
winds,  or  it  may  lie  dank  and  hidden  from  the 
sun's  eye.  It  may  redden  in  some  wayside  blossom, 
or  swell  in  the  throat  of  some  singing  bird.  But, 
ah,  wherever  it  go,  whatever  it  be  in  the  Plan,  the 
coal  that  burned  it,  the  sting  that  pierced,  the  poison 
that  maddened  —  this  striving,  quivering,  shrinking 
sentience  —  shall  have  been  quenched  and  soothed 
and  healed  by  cycles  and  seas  of  cool  oblivion. 


"  Now  that  you  know  how  it  is  with  me,  and  how 
it  has  gone  with  me,  the  last  thread  that  stayed 
me  is  snapped,  the  last  barrier  removed.  I  believe 
I  know  the  country  of  your  mind  so  well  —  that  fair, 
liberal,  candid  region,  and  so  tender  and  loyal,  too 

—  that  I  dare  to  think  I  go  taking  your  forgiveness 

—  I  had  almost  said  your  approval  —  with  me. 

"  It  draws  toward  evening.  This  is  a  very  quiet, 
kind  hour.  I  have  finished  my  message,  and  set  the 


«f»          "The  Race  Unrun "       «f»       429 

house  of  my  heart  in  order.  And  as  in  these  long 
nights  of  feverish  wakefulness  I  have  fixed  my  mind 
on  sleep  to  compel  it,  so  now  I  fix  my  soul  on  death 
to  compel  it.  And  it  is  near  —  I  feel  that  it  is  near. 
The  peace  shed  about  me  is  the  very  breath  of  that 
air  beyond  the  curtain. 

"  And  the  curtain  itself  rises  —  it  trembles  —  it 
is  withdr —  " 


"  He  was  dead,  with  a  look  of  calm  assurance 
and  settled  peace  upon  his  face,  the  pencil  in  his 
hand,  and  the  last  word  on  the  pad,  as  you  see, 
not  completed,  when  the  nurse  came  to  him,"  said 
Frank,  whisperingly,  as  we  finished  reading  the  last 
page,  where  the  tiny  characters  seemed  to  stagger 
feebly  and  ever  more  feebly  across  in  a  wavering  line 
to  that  uncompleted  word. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

Hearts   Triumphant 

"  Sing  ho,  for  the  meadows  that  reach  the  sky  I 
The  boundless  meadows,  where  you  and  I 

May  ride,  may  ride  at  our  own  sweet  will, 

With  never  a  hollow,  and  never  a  hill. 
While  our  ponies  bound  at  the  spoken  word 
And  the  wind  sings  past  like  a  singing  bird. 

Sing  ho,  for  the  meadows  that  reach  the  sky  I 

When  day  grows  old,  and  night  draws  nigh." 

FRANK  and  I  had  been  for  three  weeks  in  that 
country  which  is  my  own  country,  irrespective  of 
the  land  in  which  I  was  born  or  the  place  in  which 
I  may  be  sojourning.  We  were  staying  on  Jim 
Baxter's  Panhandle  ranch,  the  Tres  Hermanos,  near 
the  Ojo  Bravo,  having  been  quietly  married  soon 
after  Frank's  recovery  and  come  directly  to  Texas. 

I  had  ridden  on  those  plains  many  a  time  alone, 
lonely,  with  an  unquiet  heart  and  a  restless,  ques- 
tioning mind.  To-day  I  had  the  great  brown  limit- 
less stretches  spread  before  my  pony's  willing  feet, 
and  beside  me  galloped  that  one  whom  in  my  despair 
I  had  given  up,  of  whom  I  had  said,  "  Companion- 
ship with  him  —  as  he  could  be  —  is  not  to  be  had 
by  any  mere  mortal  in  this  world.  It  is  too  near 
paradise.  It  will  never  come  true." 

Harry  Brant  was  with  us  now.    He  had  brought 

43° 


"  WE    RODE    TO    THE    ROUND  -  UP  " 


<+          Hearts  Triumphant        «0»       431 

the  machines  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  work 
my  husband  and  I  loved;  for  the  DeWitts  were 
still  abroad,  and  the  magazine  to  make  its  bow  to  the 
public  within  a  few  months,  and  there  was  much  to 
do. 

Hank  Pearsall  for  a  time  stood  off  from  my  new 
acquisition,  waiting  evidently  to  accept  him  as  he 
should  prove  his  worth,  desiring  to  decide  at  leisure 
upon  his  merits.  That  this  husband  I  had  brought 
back  with  me  was  an  Eastern  man  was,  of  course,  a 
point  against  him;  but  when  I  saw  Frank  ride  to 
a  round-up  with  my  old  friend,  I  doubted  not  the 
result. 

This  round-up  was  a  pleasure  I  had  not  antici- 
pated, since  the  month  was  February,  too  late  for 
the  latest  fall  round-ups,  and  too  early  for  the  earliest 
spring  work.  But  Jim's  Panhandle  cattle-ranch  lies 
near  the  headquarters  of  the  Texas  Cattle  Syndicate, 
—  or  in  local  parlance,  the  L  Q  K,  since  ranches  are 
universally  designated  by  the  name  of  their  brand. 
This  is  the  biggest  ranch  in  Texas,  running  as  it 
does  into  nine  of  those  great  Panhandle  counties, 
enclosing  three  million  acres  of  that  noble  plains 
pasture-land,  and  having  upon  its  western  boundary 
an  unbroken  line  of  barbed  wire  fence  something 
over  two  hundred  miles  in  length.  The  L  O  K  was 
unexpectedly  making  a  big  shift  of  two-year-olds 
to  their  fattening  ranges ;  and  the  round-up  was  for 
the  purpose  of  cutting  them  out  and  bunching  them 
ready  for  the  trail. 

The  two  men  had  ridden  away  together  to  the 
round-up,  and  when  I  followed  later,  with  Harry 
Brant,  I  found  Frank  in  the  thick  of  it. 

The  last  stragglers  had  been  brought  from  out- 


432         «9»         The  Last  Word  <& 

lying  pastures,  and  were  being  thrown  into  the  big 
bunch  as  we  came  up.  Frank,  on  my  own  Little 
Bronc,  was  displaying  his  usual  address  and  intre- 
pidity, demonstrating  that  a  man  who  can  handle 
men  can  handle  cattle. 

He  had  set  out,  unaided,  to  put  into  the  bunch 
of  two-year-olds  a  brindled  steer  of  the  original 
Texas  type,  a  creature  with  a  bad  eye  and  long, 
sharp,  curved  horns. 

Health  and  a  dauntless  energy  and  his  own  pecul- 
iar cast  of  high  spirits  were  Frank's  once  more. 
And  as  I  watched  him  ride,  my  heart  swelled,  the 
blood  fairly  thrilled  through  my  veins,  and  rose 
surge  upon  surge  to  my  face,  while  the  tears  of 
excitement  and  enthusiasm  blinded  my  eyes. 

I  sat  apart  on  Nipper  (who  danced  with  amazed 
and  disgusted  impatience),  and  watched  with  keen 
delight  the  alert  figure  on  the  steely  little  blue  roan 
cut  in  and  out  like  zigzag  lightning  among  cattle 
and  horsemen,  all  grace,  dash,  and  courage. 

"  I  am  a  pagan,"  I  said  to  myself,  laughing  joy- 
ously under  my  breath ;  "  I  am  a  savage,  a  barbarian, 
who  should  have  lived  two  thousand  years  ago,  and 
had  a  Gothic  chief  to  husband.  This,  the  man  of 
my  choice,  who,  since  he  first  spoke  to  me,  has  held 
my  heart  in  his  lordly  young  hand,  might  have  been 
an  angel,  speaking  with  the  tongue  of  an  angel,  it 
would  not  so  have  set  my  pulses  going,  nor  waked 
in  me  the  enthusiasm  of  adoring  admiration  which 
springs  to  meet  and  praise  and  claim  him  here  when 
he  shines  and  surpasses  in  these  feats  of  the  primi- 
tive man." 

The  cowboys  rode  perfectly;  Frank  could  do  no 
more.  But  the  boys  lounged  through  their  work 


<&  Hearts  Triumphant        «$»       433 

with  the  carelessness  born  of  long  usage ;  one  missed 
the  pride  of  the  knight  tilting  at  tourney  under  his 
lady's  eyes,  which  was  in  every  line  of  Frank's 
figure.  I  saw  more  than  one  admiring  glance  fol- 
low the  blue  roan  and  its  rider. 

He  caught  the  eye  and  held  the  fancy,  you  would 
say,  because  this  was  new  work  to  him,  and  he  put 
into  it  an  interest,  a  passion  the  others  could  not 
feel. 

But  there  you  have  the  secret  of  Frank's  undying 
charm  and  mastery.  Nothing  ever  became  a  grind, 
an  old  story  to  him.  The  moment  his  hands  touched 
a  work,  or  a  pastime,  it  lived  beneath  them. 

Once,  the  brindled  steer  turned  viciously  upon  its 
pursuer.  But  Little  Bronc  —  staunch  little  cow- 
pony  —  was  nothing  daunted.  He  wheeled  as  in- 
stantly as  the  angry  brute  had  done,  and  its  long, 
sharp  horn  barely  grazed  his  steely  side.  Frank, 
scarcely  less  quick  than  Little  Bronc  himself,  leaned 
far  over  the  pony's  shoulder  and  dealt  the  fellow 
with  the  horns  a  savage  cut  with  the  big  Mexican 
quirt  that  hung  from  his  wrist. 

At  the  outset  of  this  scrimmage,  I  had  seen,  from 
the  tail  of  my  frightened  eye,  two  of  the  boys  near 
me  wheel  their  ponies  to  go  to  Frank's  assistance, 
and  be  restrained  therefrom  by  a  gesture  from  old 
Hank  Pearsall. 

With  the  intuitive  understanding  which  one  game 
sportsman  has  for  another,  he  cautioned : 

"  Let  the  boy  alone !  Give  him  a  fair  chance  to 
show  whether  he's  a  sure  'nough  man,  or  a  chump. 
He  ain't  a-goin'  to  stand  by  consentin'  while  a  two- 
year-old  Texas  steer  eats  him  up.  He  won't  thank 
ye  fer  inter ferin'." 


434         *$*         The  Last  Word  «f» 

Brave  words;  but  I  heard  a  big  breath  of  relief 
from  Hank  as  the  quirt  descended  and  the  steer 
turned  to  run  again. 

For  myself,  I  was  suddenly  alive  to  the  risks 
of  this  work.  It  came  terribly  home  to  me,  that  there 
was  scarcely  a  season  of  round-ups  in  which  some 
rider  was  not  maimed,  or  killed  outright;  pitched 
upon  his  head  and  his  neck  broken,  or  the  life 
crushed  out  by  his  pony  falling  on  him.  Every  atom 
of  my  flesh  became  exquisitely  aware  of  every  inden- 
tation and  rabbit-burrow  into  which  a  pony's  hoof 
might  sink  upon  that  plain. 

I  had  known  these  dangers  always ;  I  had  laughed 
at  them,  myself,  in  many  a  round-up,  and  many  a  hot 
run  across  the  levels ;  but  the  sight  of  Frank  riding 
amid  them,  was  an  illuminant.  I  was,  however,  like 
old  Hank,  too  much  in  sympathy  with  the  spirit 
which  desires  to  prove  itself  upon  all  surroundings, 
to  cry  out  or  interfere. 

But  when,  after  a  wild,  scrambling  race  in  the 
open,  with  half  a  dozen  heart-shaking  quick  turns 
which  would  have  unseated  any  but  a  perfect  horse- 
man, Frank  finally  landed  his  quarry  in  the  bunch 
of  two-year-olds,  and  returned  panting,  flushed  and 
laughing,  I  found  myself  breathing  once  more,  and 
under  the  impression  that  I  had  not  done  so  since  the 
tussle  began. 

As  Frank  approached  me,  Hank  joined  him,  and 
they  rode  up  together.  Hank  halted,  with  a  hand 
thrown  out  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder.  His 
shrewd,  wrinkled,  philosophical  old  face  was  all 
alight.  He  took  in  the  brave,  lithe  young  figure, 
from  top  to  toe,  with  one  of  his  slow,  quizzical 
glances ;  then  turned  to  me. 


«$»  Hearts  Triumphant        «f»       435 

"  Wai,  y'  seen  'im?  "  he  began.  "  He  done  noble 
—  now,  wouldn't  ye  say  so?  I've  been  lookin'  him 
over  very  careful,  an'  I  say  he'll  do  —  he's  all  right. 
I  wouldn't  never  spur  him  in  the  shoulder  none, 
'cause  it's  jest  more'n  likely  he  wouldn't  stand  it. 
Unless  I've  plumb  lost  my  judgment,  this  colt's 
sound  an'  kind  an'  willin',  an'  a  free  traveller,  ef  ye 
jest  give  him  the  right  sort  o'  treatment,  an'  no 
Mexican  thorn  bit  business." 

This  to  me.  Then  he  shook  Frank  a  little,  gently, 
by  the  shoulder,  and  said,  smiling  over  at  me,  "  But 
I'll  tell  ye,  Mr.  Randolph,  a  lady  that's  been  as 
able  as  any  cowboy  on  the  range  —  since  she  was  a 
kid  o'  ten  or  twelve  —  to  manage  anything,  from 
a  cuttin'  pony  as  fine  as  silk,  to  the  meanest  buckin' 
bronc  in  the  outfit  —  I  reckon  that  sort  ain't  likely 
to  fail  up  much  on  any  kind  o'  men-cattle;  so  I 
might  as  well  jest  give  ye  both  my  on-conditional 
blessin',  which  I  herewith  do,"  and  with  a  smile 
and  a  wave  of  the  hand  he  was  away  to  the  two-year- 
olds  again. 

A  few  days  later  we  had  ridden  over  to  Emerald 
City  for  the  mail,  Frank  and  I,  with  Harry  Brant 
and  Jim.  There  were  long,  cheerful  letters  from 
everybody,  it  seemed  to  me.  The  DeWitts  were  at 
last  in  New  York.  Mr.  DeWitt's  communication 
was,  he  being  a  professional  writer,  just  what  he 
intended  it  should  be.  As  for  Mrs.  DeWitt's  letter, 
it  was  brief  and  cheery.  Perhaps  my  own  abundant 
content  made  me  the  more  sympathetic  to  hear  and 
respond  to  the  content  I  found  here.  The  note 
which  had  been  sounded  in  my  last  interview  with 
her  ran  all  through  this  letter,  the  note  of  poise,  of 


436         •&•         The  Last  Word  «$» 

rest,  of  cheerful  decision  after  long  debatement  and 
painful  uncertainty. 

Frank's  sister  wrote  from  Dresden.  He  had,  be- 
fore we  came  West,  gathered  the  means  that  were  left 
her  and  invested  them  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  her 
a  little  income.  She  had  taken  her  two  children 
abroad  to  educate  them.  This  letter  told  us  what 
Frank  had  never  guessed  to  be  possible,  that  she  was 
resuming  her  own  interrupted  musical  studies ;  pre- 
paring, not  sadly  nor  resignedly,  but  gladly  and 
hopefully,  for  a  career  to  which  she  had  once  looked 
forward,  and  which  she  had  given  up  for  the  sake 
of  the  man  she  married. 

Genevieve's  letter  to  me  was  delicious.  She  was 
working  in  the  little  Tenth  Street  studio  upon  the 
Encyclopedia  of  Chemistry  which  was  dear  to  her 
soul.  Lemuel  had  desired  that  she  transmit  a 
message  for  him.  "  Tell  Mr.  Randolph  from  me," 
he  said,  "  that  him  and  me  has  both  made  a  big 
mistake.  I  told  him  it  was  better  to  have  two  of  'em, 
an'  not  to  tie  yourself  up  tight  to  any  one  of  'em,  an' 
that's  what  he  will  find  out  before  he  gits  done 
with  it." 

She  informed  us  that  Lemuel's  matrimonial  bark 
-  launched  after  we  had  left  New  York  —  had 
come  to  early  shipwreck,  and  that  he  was  once 
more  a  gay  bachelor,  or  rather,  a  blithe  divorce-court 
widower,  with  his  one  eye  fixed  upon  the  eligibles 
among  "  nice  stiddy,  good-lookin',  good-tempered 
gals  "  of  the  domestic  class.  And  she  added  the  — 
to  her  —  amazing  fact,  that  this  little,  old,  limping 
rascal,  with  but  one  eye,  seemed  to  find  no  difficulty 
in  attracting  a  whole  train  of  sighing  damsels. 

Frank  and  I  laughed  consumedly  over  this  aston- 


<&  Hearts  Triumphant        «$»       437 

ishing  statement ;  Harry,  who  contributed  from  his 
own  experience,  some  very  exquisite  reminiscences 
of  Lemuel,  joined  us,  and  I  repeated  the  disconsolate 
Lottie's  tearful  dictum  that  "  wimmenss  iss  poor 
weak  creaturess,  and  menss  —  they  knowss  it." 

"  Little  Lottie  is  mighty  sound  there,"  declared 
Harry.  "  That  bit  of  knowledge  is  just  about  the 
whole  stock  in  trade  of  the  Lemuel  population." 

The  tone  in  which  Genevieve  wrote  of  her  work 
and  her  prospects  was  music  to  me. 

The  Corcorans,  as  is  their  wont,  sent  me  a  round- 
robin.  Teddy's  little  hand  had  been  guided  to 
write  his  portion.  It  said,  in  a  drunken  version  of 
Mr.  Corcoran's  fine,  counting-house  script :  "  Dear 
Carry :  I  love  you  still,  if  you  did  run  away  with 
him,  so  no  more  from  your  own  Teddy.  P.  S. 
Please  bring  me  a  burro.  P.  S.  Please  come  back 
soon.  P.  S.  I  love  you." 

Our  young  lovers  were  still  in  Mexico ;  and  Mrs. 
Corcoran  opined  from  their  letter  that  they  had  not 
yet  sufficiently  recovered  to  know  whether  they  were 
in  Mexico  or  the  moon.  But  she  added,  in  her  usual 
daintily  ironical  fashion,  that  she  supposed  -we  were 
in  much  the  same  case,  and  would  not  think  strange 
of  them. 

And  now,  was  I  happy?  Had  the  impossible 
come  true? 

Yes,  and  —  as  fairy  tales  only  can  come  true  in 
real  life  —  in  the  quietest,  simplest,  sanest  fashion. 
Mine  was  the  pot  of  gold  at  the  foot  of  the  bow 
of  promise ;  my  unspoken  longing  had  been  brought 
to  me  from  the  other  end. of  life's  teleseme  wire. 

At  first  there  was  in  Frank's  manner  toward  me 
at  times  a  hesitancy,  a  timidity,  which,  in  a  man  of 


438         «^        The  Last  Word  <& 

his  disposition,  touched  me  inexpressibly,  and 
showed  me  how  entirely  his  attitude  of  mind,  against 
which  I  had  so  desperately  rebelled,  had  been  error 
of  belief  and  not  lack  of  heart.  He  would  begin 
some  suggestion  —  timely  and  reasonably  enough  — 
and  break  off  suddenly,  questioning,  "  Am  I  tyran- 
nical, Cara?"  or  declaring,  "Oh,  you  do  not  need 
my  suggestions  at  all.  Choose  for  yourself,  dear." 

We  had  at  last,  Frank  and  I,  that  liberty  which 
two  people  very  much  in  love  will  so  seldom  grant 
each  other  —  to  have,  to  pursue  and  enjoy,  those 
two  blessings  in  life,  love  and  labour. 

I  felt  no  compulsion  to  set  a  bound  upon  my  love 
for  Frank,  for  it  need  not  be  a  narrowing  devotion ; 
I  was  permitted  to  make  it  part  of  love  for  my  kind. 
And  it  was  the  sweetest  drop  in  my  cup  of  blessed- 
ness to  see  how  he  won  the  admiration  and  liking 
of  those  about  him,  how  the  voice  of  bluff,  free-born 
Texas  was  lifted  to  chant  his  praises. 

We  have  founded  that  ideal  partnership  of  sweet 
equality,  whose  bondage  is  freedom,  whose  allegiance 
is  voluntary,  its  vows  renewed  every  hour  from  an 
overflowing  heart. 

As  we  rode  home  southward  across  the  vast  turf- 
cushioned  levels,  with  their  grave  smile  lying  upon 
them,  the  sun  sank  in  red  splendour  on  our  right, 
and  the  great  white  moon  of  the  plains  country  rose 
upon  our  left,  majestic  and  refulgent. 

Jim  and  Harry  Brant  drew  gradually  ahead,  till 
we  could  hear  only  an  occasional  big  note  of  Jim's 
deep-chested  laugh,  and  see  an  arm  thrown  out  to 
point  or  emphasise. 

I  was  just  aware  of  the  pure  profile  and  graceful 
shoulders  rising  and  falling  rhythmically  beside  me. 


<^»  Hearts  Triumphant        «f»       439 

The  whole  created  world  was  ours  —  the  earth, 
and  heaven,  and  sun,  and  moon. 

Frank's  face  turned,  smiling  quietly,  toward  me, 
his  hand  reached  for  mine.  We  rode  along  at  a 
silken  lope,  talking  softly. 

Frank's  estate  was  almost  entirely  swallowed  up 
in  the  crash  which  followed  his  brother-in-law's  pecu- 
lations. He  had  no  fortune  now;  we  had  need  to 
be  enterprising.  Our  work  would  count.  Frank 
brought  his  plans  to  me ;  he  came  to  me  for  sugges- 
tions, for  inspiration,  as  to  a  partner  indeed.  The 
outlook  was  very  bright.  The  book  which  I  had 
finished  as  a  sort  of  sacrifice  upon  the  grave  of  our 
dead  love  was  now  almost  ready  for  the  press,  and 
promised  us  a  modest  fortune.  We,  as  author  and 
illustrator,  and  the  house  as  publishers,  would  all 
profit  by  it. 

And  so  we  rode  together  all  alone,  between  the 
beauties  of  the  evening  and  the  night,  Nipper  and 
Little  Bronc  loping  stride  for  stride,  as  Texas  ponies 
do,  Frank's  hand  in  mine,  looking  out  of  this  our 
lonely,  beautiful  world  of  love,  fonvard  to  that  busy, 
crowded  world  of  effort,  labour,  competition,  which 
so  attracts  us  both,  and  whither  we  shall  presently 
return  to  take  our  places. 

We  are  going  back  to  work  which  is  dear  to  us, 
and  best  —  oh,  most  best  —  we  are  going  back  side 
by  side,  hand  in  hand,  to  live  our  lives  together. 


THE   END. 


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concerned  with  the  interesting  field  of  political  intrigue  in  the 
Balkan  states.  The  remarkable  success  which  Mr.  Grier's 
novels  have  enjoyed  in  England  makes  certain  the  favorable 
reception  on  this  side  of  the  water  of  his  latest  work. 


LIST  OF  NEW  FICTION 


PAGE'S  COMMONWEALTH  SERIES 

Literary  growth  in  America  has  been  of  late  years  as  rapid 
as  its  material  and  economical  progress.  The  vast  size  of  the 
country,  the  climatic  and  moral  conditions  of  its  different  parts, 
and  the  separate  political  and  social  elements,  have  all  tended 
to  create  distinct  methods  of  literary  expression  in  various  sec- 
tions. In  offering  from  time  to  time  the  books  in  the  "  COM- 
MONWEALTH SERIES,"  we  shall  select  a  novel  or  story 
descriptive  of  the  methods  of  thought  and  life  of  that  particu- 
lar section  of  the  country  which  each  author  represents.  The 
elegance  of  paper,  press-work,  and  binding,  and  the  lavish  and 
artistic  illustrations,  as  well  as  the  convenient  size,  add  not  a 
little  to  the  attractiveness  of  the  volumes. 


Number  5.  (Illinois)  The  Russells  in  Chi- 
cago. By  EMILY  WHEATON.  Illustrated  with  full-page 
drawings  by  F.  C.  Ransom,  and  numerous  reproductions 
from  original  photographs. 

Cloth,  large  i6mo,  gilt  top $1.25 

This  entertaining  story  is  the  narrative  of  the  experiences  of 
two  young  people  from  Boston  who  take  up  their  residence  in 
the  wilds  by  Lake  Michigan.  The  characteristics  of  life  in  the 
great  Western  metropolis,  as  well  as  the  foibles  of  the  impec- 
cable Eastern  critic,  are  touched  with  a  gentle  and  amusing 
satire,  as  kindly  as  it  is  observant  and  keen. 

Even  without  the  omen  of  success  afforded  in  the  previous 
numbers  of  this  popular  series,  it  is  safe  to  predict  a  most 
favorable  reception  for  this  charming  story. 

Number  6.  (New  York)  Councils  of  Croesus. 

By  MARY  KNIGHT  POTTER,  author  of  "  Love  in  Art,"  etc. 
Cloth,  large  i6mo,  gilt  top,  illustrated       .         .         .     $1.25 
A  clever  and  vivacious  story  of  life  in  New  York  society 
circles. 


Selections  from 

L.  C  Page  and  Company's 

List  of  Fiction 

WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS 
Captain    Ravenshaw;     OR,    THE    MAID   OF 

CHEAPSIDE.     (35th  thousand.)     A  romance  of  Elizabethan 
London.     Illustrations  by  Howard  Pyle  and  other  artists. 
Library  I2mo,  cloth  ......     $1.50 

Not  since  the  absorbing  adventures  of  D'Artagnan  have  we 
had  anything  so  good  in  the  blended  vein  of  romance  and 
comedy.  The  beggar  student,  the  rich  goldsmith,  the  roisterer 
and  the  rake,  the  fop  and  the  maid,  are  all  here :  foremost 
among  them,  Captain  Ravenshaw  himself,  soldier  of  fortune 
and  adventurer,  who,  after  escapades  of  binding  interest, 
finally  wins  a  way  to  fame  and  to  matrimony.  The  rescue  of 
a  maid  from  the  designs  of  an  unscrupulous  father  and  rakish 
lord  forms  the  principal  and  underlying  theme,  around  which 
incidents  group  themselves  with  sufficient  rapidity  to  hold  one's 
attention  spellbound. 

Philip  WinwOOd.  (7oth  thousand.)  A  Sketch  of 
the  Domestic  History  of  an  American  Captain  in  the  War  of 
Independence,  embracing  events  that  occurred  between  and 
during  the  years  1763  and  1785  in  New  York  and  London. 
Written  by  his  Enemy  in  War,  Herbert  Russell,  Lieutenant 
in  the  Loyalist  Forces.  Presented  anew  by  ROBERT  NEIL- 
SON  STEPHENS.  Illustrated  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 
Library  I2tno,  cloth  ......  $1.50 

"  One  of  the  most  stirring  and  remarkable  romances  that  have 
been  published  in  a  long  while,  and  its  episodes,  incidents,  and 
actions  are  as  interesting  and  agreeable  as  they  are  vivid  and 
dramatic."  —  Boston  Times. 


L.    C.  PAGE   AND    COMPANY'S 


An  Enemy  to  the  King.   (4°th  thousand.)  From 

the  "  Recently    Discovered    Memoirs   of   the    Sieur   de   la 

Tournoire."     Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 

Library  I2tno,  cloth $1.50 

An  historical  romance  of  the  sixteenth  century,  describing 
the  adventures  of  a  young  French  nobleman  at  the  Court  of 
Henry  III.,  and  on  the  field  with  Henry  of  Navarre. 

"  A  stirring  tale."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  A  royally  strong  piece  of  fiction." —  Boston  Ideas. 

"Interesting  from  the  first  to  the  last  page."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  Brilliant  as  a  play ;  it  is  equally  brilliant  as  a  romantic  novel."  — 
Philadelphia  Press. 

The  Continental  Dragoon :    A  ROMANCE  OF 

PHILIPSE  MANOR  HOUSE  IN  1778.    (42d  thousand.)    Illus- 
trated by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

Library  I2mo,  cloth $1.50 

A  stirring  romance  of  the  Revolution,  the  scene  being  laid 
in  and  around  the  old  Philipse  Manor  House,  near  Yonkers, 
which  at  the  time  of  the  story  was  the  central  point  of  the  so- 
called  "  neutral  territory  "  between  the  two  armies. 

The   Road  tO    Paris:     A  STORY  OF   ADVENTURE. 
(23d  thousand.)     Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

Library  I2mo,  cloth $1.50 

An  historical  romance  of  the  i8th  century,  being  an  account 
of  the  life  of  an  American  gentleman  adventurer  of  Jacobite 
ancestry,  whose  family  early  settled  in  the  colony  of  Pennsyl- 
vania. 

A  Gentleman  Player :  HIS  ADVENTURES  ON  A 

SECRET  MISSION  FOR   QUEEN   ELIZABETH.      (35th   thou- 
sand.)    Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  I2mo,  cloth $1.50 

"A  Gentleman  Player"  is  a  romance  of  the  Elizabethan 
period.  It  relates  the  story  of  a  young  gentleman  who,  in  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  falls  so  low  in  his  fortune  that  he  joins 
Shakespeare's  company  of  players,  and  becomes  a  friend  and 
prote'ge'  of  the  great  poet. 


LIST  OF  FICTION 


WORKS  OF 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 
The  Heart  of  the  Ancient  Wood. 

Library  I2mo,  gilt  top,  decorative  cover,  illustrated  .  $1.50 
This  book  strikes  a  new  note  in  literature.  It  is  a  realistic 
romance  of  the  folk  of  the  forest,  —  a  romance  of  the  alliance 
of  peace  between  a  pioneer's  daughter  in  the  depths  of  the 
ancient  wood  and  the  wild  beasts  who  felt  her  spell  and 
became  her  friends.  It  is  not  fanciful,  with  talking  beasts; 
nor  is  it  merely  an  exquisite  idyl  of  the  beasts  themselves.  It 
is  an  actual  romance  in  which  the  animal  characters  play  their 
parts  as  naturally  as  do  the  human. 

The  Forge  in  the  Forest.  Being  the  Narrative 
of  the  Acadian  Ranger,  Jean  de  Mer,  Siegneur  de  Briart, 
and  how  he  crossed  the  Black  Abbe',  and  of  his  Adventures 
in  a  Strange  Fellowship.  Illustrated  by  Henry  Sandham, 
R.  C.  A. 

Library  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  deckle-edge  paper        .     $1.50 
A  romance  of  the  convulsive  period  of  the  struggle  between 

the  French  and  English  for  the  possession  of  North  America. 

The  story  is  one  of  pure  love  and  heroic  adventure,  and  deals 

with  that  fiery  fringe  of  conflict  that  waved  between  Nova 

Scotia  and  New  England. 

A  Sister  to  Evangeline.    Being  the  story  of 

Yvonne  de  Lamourie,  and  how  she  went  into  Exile  with  the 

Villagers  of  Grand  Pre*. 

Library   i2mo,    cloth,   deckle-edge   paper,   gilt    top, 

illustrated $1.50 

This  is  a  romance  of  the  great  expulsion  of  the  Acadians 
which  Longfellow  first  immortalized  in  "  Evangeline."  Swift 
action,  fresh  atmosphere,  wholesome  purity,  deep  passion, 
searching  analysis,  characterize  this  strong  novel ;  and  the 
tragic  theme  of  the  exile  is  relieved  by  the  charm  of  the  wilful 
demoiselle  and  the  spirit  of  the  courtly  seigneur,  who  bring  the 
manners  of  old  France  to  the  Acadian  woods. 


L.    C.  PAGE   AND    COMPANY'S 


Works  of  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  (Continued) 

Earth's  Enigmas. 

Library  I2mo,  cloth,  uncut  edges  .  .  .  .  $1.25 
This  is  the  author's  first  volume  of  stories  and  the  one  which 
discovered  him  as  a  fiction  writer  of  advanced  rank.  The 
tales  deal  chiefly  with  those  elemental  problems  of  the  mys- 
teries of  life,  — pain,  the  unknown,  the  strange  kinship  of  man 
and  beast  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  —  the  enigmas  which 
occur  chiefly  to  the  primitive  folk  on  the  backwoods  fringe  of 
civilization,  and  they  arrest  attention  for  their  sincerity,  their 
freshness  of  first-hand  knowledge,  and  their  superior  craft. 

By  the  Marshes  of  Minas. 

Library  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  illustrated  .  .  .  $1.25 
This  is  a  volume  of  romance  of  love  and  adventure  in  that 
picturesque  period  when  Nova  Scotia  was  passing  from  the 
French  to  the  English  regime,  of  which  Professor  Roberts  is 
the  acknowledged  celebrant.  Each  tale  is  independent  of  the 
others,  but  the  scenes  are  similar,  and  in  several  of  them  the 
evil  "  Black  Abbe","  well  known  from  the  author's  previous 
novels,  again  appears  with  his  savages  at  his  heels  —  but  to  be 
thwarted  always  by  woman's  wit  or  soldier's  courage. 


WORKS  OF 

MAURUS  JOKAI 

Translated   by   P.   F.   Bicknell.     With   a 
portrait  in  photogravure  of  Dr.  Jdkai. 

Library  I2mo,  cloth  decorative  .  .  .  .  $1.50 
An  absorbing  story  of  life  among  a  happy  and  primitive 
people  hidden  away  in  far  Transylvania,  whose  peaceful  life  is 
never  disturbed  except  by  the  inroads  of  their  turbulent  neigh- 
bors. The  opening  scenes  are  laid  in  Rome ;  and  the  view  of 
the  corrupt,  intriguing  society  there  forms  a  picturesque  con- 
trast to  the  scenes  of  pastoral  simplicity  and  savage  border 
warfare  that  succeed. 


LIST  OF  FICTION  5 

Works  of  Maurus  J6kai  (Continued) 

The    Baron'S    Sons.      Translated  by  P.  F.  BScknell. 
With  a  portrait  in  photogravure  of  Dr.  Jdkai. 
Library  12010,  cloth  decorative          .         .         .         .     $1.50 
This  is  an    exceedingly  interesting  romance,   the  scene  of 
which  is  laid  at  the  courts  of  St.  Petersburg,  Moscow,  and 
Vienna,  and  in  the  armies  of  the  Austrians  and  Hungarians. 
It  follows  the  fortunes  of  three  young  Hungarian  noblemen, 
whose  careers  are  involved  in  the  historical  incidents  of  the 
time. 

Pretty    flichal  :    A    ROMANCE   OF    HUNGARY.     Au- 
thorized translation   by  R.   Nisbet   Bain.     With   a   photo- 
gravure frontispiece  of  the  great  Magyar  writer. 
Library  12 mo,  cloth  decorative          .         .         .         .     $1.50 

"  It  is  at  once  a  spirited  tale  of  '  border  chivalry,"  a  charming  love 
story  full  of  genuine  poetry,  and  a  graphic  picture  of  life  in  a  coun- 
try and  at  a  period  both  equally  new  to  English  readers."  —  Literary 
World. 

flidst   the  Wild  Carpathians.    Authorized 

translation  by  R.  Nisbet  Bain.     With  a  frontispiece  by  J. 

W.  Kennedy. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth  decorative          .         .         .         .     $1.25 

A  thrilling  historical  Hungarian  novel,  in  which  the  extraor- 
dinary dramatic  and  descriptive  powers  of  the  great  Magyar 
writer  have  full  play.  As  a  picture  of  feudal  life  in  Hungary 
it  has  never  been  surpassed  for  fidelity  and  vividness. 

The  Corsair  King.      A  tale  of  the  Buccaneers. 

Large  i6mo,  cloth,  decorative  .         .         .         .     $1.00 

The  Buccaneer  adventures  are  very  stirring.  The  love 
story  is  a  thread  of  beauty  and  delicacy,  woven  in  and  out  a 
few  times  in  the  coarser  woof  of  this  rough  sea  atmosphere. 
One  leaves  the  book  with  the  sense  that  he  has  actually  been 
for  awhile  in  the  midst  of  a  corsair's  life  of  the  olden  time,  — 
felt  its  fascinations  and  found  its  retributions. 


L.    C.  PAGE  AND    COMPANY'S 


WORKS  OF 

PAULINE  BRADFORD  MACKIE 
The  Washingtonians. 

One  vol.,  library  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  deckle-edge 
paper,  with  a  frontispiece  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin   .     $1.50 

Pauline  Bradford  Mackie's  new  novel  deals  with  Washing- 
ton official  society  in  the  early  sixties.  The  plot  is  based  upon 
the  career  (not  long  since  ended)  of  a  brilliant  and  well-known 
woman,  who  was  at  that  time  a  power  in  official  circles. 

riademoiselle  de  Berny :  A  STORY  OF  VALLEY 

FORGE.     With  five  full-page  photogravures  from  drawings 

by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

One  vol.,  library  lanio,  cloth,  gilt  top        .         .         .     $1.50 

"  The  charm  of  '  Mademoiselle  de  Berny '  lies  in  its  singular 
sweetness."  —  Boston  Herald. 

"One  of  the  very  few  choice  American  historical  stories."  —  Bos- 
ton Transcript. 

Ye  Lyttle  Salem  flaide  :  A  STORY  OF  WITCH- 
CRAFT. With  four  full-page  photogravures  from  drawings 
by  E.  W.  D  Hamilton. 

One  vol.,  library  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top  .  .  .  $1.50 
A  tale  of  the  days  of  the  reign  of  superstition  in  New  Eng- 
land, and  of  a  brave  "  lyttle  maide,"  of  Salem  Town,  whose 
faith  and  hope  and  unyielding  adherence  to  her  word  of 
honor  form  the  basis  of  a  most  attractive  story.  A  very  con- 
vincing picture  is  drawn  of  Puritan  life  during  the  latter  part 
of  the  seventeenth  century. 

A  Georgian  Actress. 

Illustrated  by  E.  W.  D.  Hamilton. 

One  vol.,  library  I2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top  .  .  .  $i  50 
A  historical  novel  dealing  with  the  life  of  the  early  settlers 
in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  just  before  the  Revolution.  From  the 
strange  life  in  the  wilderness  the  ambitious  girl  is  transplanted 
to  the  gay  life  of  the  court  of  George  III.  and  becomes  famous 
as  an  actress  in  Garrick's  company. 


LIST  OF  FICTION 


WORKS  OF 

MARSHALL  SAUNDERS 

Deficient   Saints.     A  TALE  OF  MAINE. 
Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
One  vol.,  library  I2mo,  cloth,  decorative  cover          .     $1.50 

In  this,  her  latest  story,  Marshall  Saunders  follows  closely 
the  fortunes  of  a  French  family  whose  history  is  bound  up 
with  that  of  the  old  Pine-tree  State.  These  French  people 
become  less  and  less  French  until,  at  last,  they  are  Americans, 
intensely  loyal  to  their  State  and  their  country.  Although 
"  Deficient  Saints  "  is  by  no  means  a  historical  novel,  frequent 
references  are  made  to  the  early  romantic  history  of  Maine. 

Her  Sailor. 

With  a  frontispiece  by  H.  C.  Ireland. 

One  vol.,  library  i2mo,  cloth,  decorative  cover          .     $1.25 

" '  Her   Sailor '   is   a  charming   story   of  the   love   affair  of  an 

American  girl  and  a  sailor  ...  a  story  of  absorbing  interest."  — 

Grand  Rapids  Herald. 

"  A  real  love  story,  refreshing  and  sweet,  as  every  reader  will  find 
it."  —  Utica  Herald. 

"It  is  clean  and  wholesome,  with  the  smell  of  the  salt  sea."  — 
Omaha  Bee. 

"...  A  fine  character  sketch  and  an  entertaining  story."  — 
Chicago  Bookseller. 

Rose  a   Charlitte.    AN  ACADIEN  ROMANCE. 
Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 
One  vol.,  library  i2mo,  cloth,  decorative  cover          .     $1.25 

"  A  very  fine  novel.  We  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  .  .  .  one  of 
the  books  that  stamp  themselves  at  once  upon  the  imagination,  and 
remain  imbedded  in  the  memory  long  after  the  covers  are  closed." 
—  Literary  World,  Boston. 

"  As  skilful  a  character  study  as  it  is  an  effective  development  of 
a  natural  and  yet  imaginative  plot.  It  is  an  unusually  sweet  and 
wholesome  story,  full  of  spirit,  and  written  in  a  remarkably  choice 
style."  —  The  Congregationalist,  Boston. 


L.    C.  PAGE   AND    COMPANY'S 


WORKS  OF 

GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

"The  writer  of  the  greatest  promise  to-day  in  Italy,  and  perhaps 
one  of  the  most  unique  figures  in  contemporary  literature,  is 
Gabriele  d'Annunzio,  the  poet-novelist."  —  The  Bookman. 

"  This  book  is  realistic.  Some  say  that  it  is  brutally  so.  But  the 
realism  is  that  of  Flaubert,  and  not  of  Zola.  There  is  no  plain 
speaking  for  the  sake  of  plain  speaking.  Every  detail  is  justified  in 
the  fact  that  it  illuminates  either  the  motives  or  the  actions  of  the 
man  and  woman  who  here  stands  revealed.  It  is  deadly  true.  The 
author  holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  and  the  reader  sees  his  own 
experiences  duplicated  in  passage  after  passage.  —  Review  of  The 
Triumph  of  Death  in  the  ATew  York  Evening  Sun. 

Signer  d'Annunzio  is  known  throughout  the  world  as  a  poet 
and  a  dramatist,  but  above  all  as  a  novelist,  for  it  is  in  his 
novels  that  he  is  at  his  best. 

He  is  engaged  on  a  most  ambitious  work  —  nothing  less 
than  the  writing  of  nine  novels  which  cover  the  whole  field  of 
human  sentiment.  This  work  he  has  divided  into  three  trilo- 
gies, and  five  of  the  nine  books  have  been  published.  It  is  to 
be  regretted  that  other  labors  have  interrupted  the  completion 
of  the  series. 

The  volumes  published  are  as  follows.    Each  i  vol., 

library  I2mo,  cloth $1.50 

THE  ROMANCES  OF  THE  ROSE 
The  Child  of  Pleasure   (IL  PIACERE). 

The   Intruder    (L'INNOCENTE). 

The    Triumph    Of    Death     (IL  TRIONFO  DELLA 

MORTE). 

Jl 

THE  ROMANCES  OF  THE  LILY 
The   Maidens  of  the  Rocks    <LE   VERGINI 

DELLE   ROCCE). 

Jl 

THE  ROMANCES  OF  THE  POMEGRANATE 
The  Flame  of  Life.   (IL  FUOCO> 


LIST  OF  FICTION 


PAGE'S  COMMONWEALTH  SERIES 

Each  i  vol.,  large  i6mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  profusely  il- 
lustrated         $1.25 

No.  I  (Massachusetts)  — 

Her  Boston  Experiences.     By  ANNA  FARQUHAR 

(MARGARET  ALLSTON). 

"  The  first  book  for  Bostonians  to  read  is  '  Her  Boston  Experi- 
ences.'    It  will  do  them  good."  —  The  Literary  World. 
"  The  book  is  really  enormously  clever."  —  Boston  Times. 

No.  2  (Virginia)  — 

A    Sunny    Southerner.     By  JULIA    MAGRUDER, 

author    of    "  A    Magnificent    Plebeian,"    "  The     Princess 

Sonia,"  etc. 

A  charming  love  story,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  the 
Virginia  of  to-day.  The  plot  revolves  about  two  principal 
characters,  a  Southern  heroine  and  a  Northern  hero ;  and  the 
story  is  written  in  the  author's  usual  clever  style. 

No.  3  (Maine)  — 

'Lias's   \Vife.     By  MARTHA  BAKER  DUNN,  author  of 

"  Memory  Street,"  etc. 

There  is  the  direct  appeal  of  a  story  that  has  been  really 
lived  in  this  charming  novel  of  Maine  life.  One  essential 
merit  of  the  book  is  its  reproduction  of  the  genuine  New  Eng- 
land atmosphere,  with  innumerable  idioms  quaintly  delight- 
ful to  encounter.  The  humor  is  pervasive  and  delicate,  the 
pathetic  touches  equally  effective. 

No.  4  (District  of  Columbia)  — 

Her  Washington    Experiences.    By  ANNA 

FARQUHAR,  author  of  "The  Devil's  Plough,"  etc. 

There  has  been  no  cleverer  book  published  this  season  than 
"  Her  Washington  Experiences."  The  Cabinet  member's 
wife,  through  whose  eyes  we  are  given  a  glimpse  into  Wash- 
ington society,  has  a  vision  delightfully  true  and  clear;  her 
impressions  of  the  city  as  a  whole,  compared  in  character  with 
other  places,  are  well  worth  reading  for  their  epigrammatic 
brilliancy  and  apt  contrasts. 


IO  L.   C.  PAGE  AND   COMPANY'S 

SOME  RECENT  FICTION 

Lauriel.     THE  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  GIRL. 
By  «  A.  H." 

We  are  not  at   liberty  yet  to  announce  the  name  of   the 
author,  who  is,  however,  well  known  in  this  country. 
With  a  portrait  frontispiece  in  photogravure. 

Library  1 2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top $1.50 

"  The  sincere  and  unaffected  charm  of  these  letters  from  the  pen 
of  a  genuine  American  girl  cannot  fail  to  give  them  an  influence 
which  mere  love  letters  could  never  exert."  —  From  a  Letter  to  the 
Publishers. 

Jar  vis  Of  Harvard.     By  REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFF- 

MANN.     Illustrated  by  Robert  Edwards. 

Library  I2ino,  cloth  decorative          ....     $1.50 

A  strong  and  well-written  novel,  true  to  a  certain  side  of  the 
college  atmosphere,  not  only  in  the  details  of  athletic  life,  but 
in  the  spirit  of  college  social  and  society  circles.  The  local 
color  appeals  not  only  to  Harvard  men,  but  to  their  rivals,  the 
loyal  sons  of  Yale,  Pennsylvania,  and  Princeton. 

Mr.  Kauffman  is  also  especially  at  home  in  his  descriptions 
of  the  society  doings  of  the  smart  set  in  Philadelphia. 


Valere.    A  realistic  novel  of  modern  New  York. 

By  JOSEPH  HALLWORTH. 

Large  1 2mo,  illustrated,  cloth  decorative  .         .         .     $1.50 

This  book,  containing  over  one  hundred  pen  and  ink 
sketches  by  the  author,  is  altogether  a  unique  production  in 
the  history  of  book-making,  being  a  facsimile  reproduction  of 
the  author's  original  manuscript. 

Mr.  Hallworth  has  done  for  the  slums  of  New  York  what 
Dickens  did  for  London. 

Witiefred.     A  STORY  OF  THE  CHALK  CLIFFS.    By  S. 
BARING-GOULD,  author  of  "  Mehala,"  etc.     Illustrated. 
Library  I2mo,  cloth  decorative          .         .         .         .     $1.50 
A  striking  novel  of  English  life  in  the  eighteenth  century 
by  this  well-known  writer.     The  scene  is  laid  partly  in  rural 
Devonshire  and  partly  in  aristocratic  London  circles. 


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